


The First Law

by thegraytigress



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Steve Rogers, BAMF Tony Stark, De-Serumed Steve Rogers, Drama, Epic Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 81,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4817495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are dark places in the world. Zemo returns to exact his revenge on Captain America. Now Tony, Steve, and Clint are trapped down deep in a watery nightmare with nothing but their strength, courage, and determination standing between them and a fathomless abyss. Sometimes it's what lies within that truly counts the most. Sequel to "The Last Level".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** T (for language, violence, scenes of torture)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Welcome to the next installment of the Traumatized Trio. This is the sequel to ["The Last Level"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1972494/chapters/4268952). I would suggest you read that before you read this, but you can probably follow along without it. This story will feature Steve, Tony, and Clint once more getting themselves into some serious trouble in a really dark, dangerous place. Seeing as how I wrote "The Last Level" almost three years ago (holy crap, really?), it was before _Iron Man 3, Captain America: the Winter Soldier,_ and _Avengers: Age of Ultron_. Therefore, this is going to be rather AU and may or may not include elements from Phase 2 of the MCU. And obviously my Baron Zemo will probably have nothing to do with Baron Zemo in _Captain America: Civil War_. So… yeah.
> 
> No real pairings. There will be mentions of Tony/Pepper and Clint/Natasha, but they won't be anything close to the focus of the story. This is pure, unadulterated whump, adventure, angst, and bromance. Expect ten chapters. Enough of all this. Enjoy, everyone, and thanks for reading!

There were dark places in the world.  Evil men.  Horrors.  A cold, depthless abyss.

As he drifted in and out of consciousness, Tony was only aware of a few things.  Passing thoughts to which he couldn’t hold no matter how he tried.  Scattered memories.  Fleeting sensations.  It was cold, damp smelling maybe, not of mold or mildew but _wet_ like he was somewhere that was never entirely dry.  It was hard to get his eyes open; the lids seemed stubbornly stuck together, and every impulse from his brain to his body seemed to go nowhere, as if his nerves were completely misfiring.  Still, he thought he saw something after a moment.  Metal?  _No, not this._   Concrete?  _Please_ _not this._   He was moving, being dragged by his legs, and his head kept scraping along the cold, unforgiving floor.  Two dark blobs that might have been men were moving him, and there were other shadows looming over him and flanking him.  They were speaking in a language that wasn’t English.  German?  _No.  No._ There were more shadows above him, long shadows hiding longer pipes that more resembled snakes in the darkness, and they were hissing clouds of vapor.  The top of some sort of corridor.  _Oh, no.  No, no, no.  Not again._

Where was he?  What the hell had happened _this time?_

“Nope.  No.  Uh-uh,” he moaned, going limp (not that it mattered – his head hurt so badly and he was so damn dizzy that any miniscule chance he might have had of struggling wasn’t worth hanging onto).  He let his eyes slip shut again, fighting to keep his stomach where it was.  He most definitely had a concussion.  Maybe.  Something was wrong with his head because he couldn’t remember much of anything save for a rifle butt ramming into his chest and something sharp pricking his neck and…  Nothing.  Nothing else came after that, not where he was or what series of disastrous events had landed him _yet again_ in a situation like this.  And even though he knew he should fight, summon his suit or at least try to get away from the dark blobs around him and ahead of him that were yanking him by his ankles, it was too hard.  Again, the commands from his brain really didn’t reach his muscles.  The best he could do was a wrangled, sobbing laugh that sounded distant, hoarse, and pathetic.  “I’m tapping out, fellas.  Have… have fun without me.  Hail, HYDRA.”

 _“Halt die Klappe!_ ” roared the blob on the left, and before Tony could even think to move his arms to protect his vulnerable midsection, a foot stomped down into his belly.  He cried out with everything he had, which was a mistake since the next strike drove the last bit of air right from his lungs.  The boot seemed to hook under his ribs, bending them, and fire exploded throughout his chest.  _“Nicht sprechen!”_

 _No talking.  Got it._   He couldn’t actually say that, not with his lungs seizing and his brain muddled by the waves of agony assailing him, but thinking it was probably good enough, right?  Besides, that would be talking, and he wasn’t supposed to talk.  He could handle that for once.  Shutting up and passing out.  He went limp again, didn’t have much choice about it really, and the blobs that could have been men resumed dragging him.

It seemed to go on forever, the world a streak of dim grays and shadows as he drifted in and out of consciousness, but eventually it stopped.  Wherever they’d been going, they’d apparently gotten there.  It was a door, a dark, metallic one that glimmered sleekly even in the dim light.  Tony could hardly catch his breath, raising his head just the barest amount, and his mind was so rattled and his senses so disjointed that for a moment he saw another room, another time and place, where they’d pulled him inside and cut his suit off his arm and…  The limb suddenly wracked with phantom pain so sharp that he sobbed, trying to roll away simply to escape it.  Hands snatched him, yanking him back roughly.  His t-shirt ripped as he squirmed ineffectively.  The memory of that agony, of the sparks from a saw slicing through titanium, of the hands restraining him, of them smashing his arm, of them _breaking his bones…_   “No, no.  Please.  Please don’t!”

They laughed, the bastards.  Bile burned its way up Tony’s throat, and he gasped raggedly in a vain attempt to ride out his panic as the men gripped his upper arms roughly.  The door slid open with a hydraulic whir.  There was nothing beyond it.  Nothing but darkness, blackness so deep and complete that the paltry light slipping in from corridor simply couldn’t pierce it.  Were there walls?  A floor?  He couldn’t see for more than a foot beyond the threshold.  “Please,” he begged, shaking his head.  He dug his sneakers into the floor, but the rubber provided little traction, at least not enough to stop them from shoving him toward the void.  Terror left him scrambling, and he was fighting with everything he had now.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t much.  “Please!  _No!”_   Nothing he did stopped them from throwing him inside.  The door slid shut behind him and sealed with an echoing thud.

Tony’s knees hit hard as he fell.  His abdomen exploded in new pain, and without _anything_ to see, the vertigo was coming like a freight train.  His heart thundered, his breath coming in shallow, fast pants that were thunderous in the cavernous silence.  Eyes wide, he looked around.  Nothing.  Not even a speck of light.  The walls could be a mere few feet from him, or they could be miles away.  Or maybe there weren’t walls.That was disconcerting, absolutely upsetting in fact, and inexplicably he felt claustrophobic and utterly weightless at the same time.  Falling, falling so far and so fast, yet _trapped_ and motionless _._   _No, no, no_.  For the first time since he’d had it removed, he _missed_ the arc reactor.  That pale blue glue that had kept him awake night after night, that had been a lasting reminder of Afghanistan, of the silo, of other dark places and horrible hells in this world…  He wanted it back.  He clutched at his chest, but beneath his shirt there was nothing but the solid bone and scar tissue of his sternum.  He needed to see.  He needed to know there was something _there_.  That he wasn’t alone.  That they weren’t just going to _leave_ him in here until he…  He choked on a sob.  The last thread of his control was fraying, all those awful memories pressing down on him.  Rust and mangled metal and darkness.  Rain.  Sweat.  Blood.  _No!_

“Somebody!” he screamed.  He threw himself back – the door _had_ to be right there! – and his arm and shoulder hit.  Like the vertigo, the force of his elbow striking the unyielding surface was at once as sharp as agony but _not_ , not because his arm wasn’t broken now.  But _damn_ it hurt.  Everything bled into nothingness, spun around, and then twisted back into nightmare, and he was its hapless passenger.  He banged on the wall, banged hard and loud, banged until his knuckles split and he could feel warmth squishing between his fingers.  The thudding of his fists was booming, a vibrating, hollow banging, but aside from that, his rushed pants, and his straining heart, there was no answer.  That didn’t stop him from trying, shouting himself hoarse.  _“Somebody!  Somebody help me!”_

Nothing.  He choked on his breath, sagging into the wall.  It was cold but firm, _something_ in this darkness that felt real.  He collapsed there, laboring for each breath.  He’d had enough panic attacks in his life to feel himself tipping over the edge into one.  “Oh, God.  Oh, God.  Not again.  Please.  Not again.”  Captured again.  Imprisoned again.  _Screwed over again._   Maybe even left to die again…  It was too damn early even to be thinking that, recent events notwithstanding.  He knew it was probably the concussion he thought he had wreaking havoc with him, muddling his memories, heightening his fear, panic, and pessimism, sucking his thoughts dry of logic (and he freaking _hated_ that, being bereft of common sense and rational perspective.  And he knew it wasn’t just the concussion causing that, though it made him feel better to think it because when the symptoms got better, then so would he, right?).  He knew that he was stronger than this.  And he was falling apart, goddamn it, but he’d been in worse scrapes and had survived and these HYDRA bastards weren’t going to knock him down so easily.  He just needed to calm down, get himself under control, and _think._

He could think.  He could think himself out of anything.  So he sucked in a few deep, slow breaths to ward off hyperventilating, blowing them out and concentrating on that.  A few minutes doing this helped tremendously.  Then he opened his eyes (it was useless, but still).  His first order of business was feeling along the walls.  Maybe he’d find _something_ , another door or a window or…  _Not likely._   He shoved the cynical thought and scooched as close to the wall as he could, the sound of his jeans rubbing across the cold, smooth floor unreasonably loud.  Keeping his hands planted on the wall (which was weird, too, so smooth and ice cold like the floor), he pushed himself back onto wobbly knees.  The dizziness swooped back and he found himself squeezing his eyes shut again.  Once more he focused on breathing – _in through the nose, out through the mouth_ – just until he could stand to move again.  Then he did, pressing close to the wall and shuffling along.  Every heavy breath, every shuffle of his clothes, was unbearably loud.  He tried to gather his senses and actually pay attention to the echoing.  The room was probably empty, if the intensity of it was any indication, and fairly big given the slight time delay between the noises he made and when they came back to him.  That was at least more than he’d known a few minutes ago.  _And knowing is half the battle._   He smirked at that, thinking of G.I. Joe (alright, those were a little after his time as a kid, but he liked cartoons).  G.I. Joe and that stupid public service announcement section during the show.  G.I. Joe.  _A real American hero._

“Shit,” he whispered.  Steve had been with him.  He still couldn’t remember what had happened – _the Tower and dinner and Mario Kart?_ – but he was abruptly _absolutely_ certain of that.  His blood went cold, the chaotic slices of images and bursts of sound in his head leaving him reeling and sick.  Steve had been with him.  So where was he now?  Tony gasped in the silence, trying to remember, but thinking only made his brain throb within the confines of his skull worse than it already was.  Still, he kept trying, kept fighting to make that pandemonium of half-formed recollections stampeding through his thoughts make some sense.  It wasn’t just Steve who’d been there.

Clint shouting, gun in his hand, hiding behind the remains of the bar in the common room.  Clint, covering his head under a shower of glass.  Clint crying out, holding his bleeding arm.  Clint fighting like mad as two men held him back, screaming in rage.  _“Leave him alone, goddamn it!  Steve!”_

Clint, crouched over a prone body.  _“Stark, he’s not waking up.  Jesus, what did they do to him?”_

Oh, God…  Where were they?

_Why can’t I remember?_

This time, Tony couldn’t calm his ragged breathing.  Panic left him reeling, and suddenly it was all back, the awful feeling of falling, of being trapped.  Crushed and weightless, all at once.  He gritted his teeth, struggling to hold onto his composure, but it was too hard.  He barely had a second to draw a breath before he was throwing up, the nausea and wicked dizziness finally overpowering his control.  Bile burned its way up his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the agony in his midsection as he retched.  Forever he suffered through it until he was dry heaving and sobbing in misery.  “Goddamn it…  Oh, hell…  Somebody!  Somebody!  Let me out of here!”  He weakly pushed himself away from where he could smell the puddle, clambering toward where he thought the wall was.  Where he _thought_ it was.  It wasn’t there anymore.  Logically walls couldn’t move; he’d gotten himself turned around in the pitch, completely disoriented, and he was simply lost.  But to his rattled, irrational brain, he was _lost,_ lost with no hope, and no one would come for him.  “Please!  _Please!_ ”  His next scream was more a wordless wail, and he collapsed onto his back.  Everything spun and spun, and he thought he was going to be sick again.  The darkness was so chillingly absolute, so endless, and it was swallowing him whole, taking him away.  “Please…”

He fell down deep.

Sometime later (minutes or hours or _days_ – there was no way to tell), he heard a sound.  Tony dragged himself from the recesses of sleep, from the haze of semi-consciousness where he’d been drifting and thoughtless and fairly happy and carefree because of it.  Something about the sound tugged at his attention, and the annoying realization that he needed to focus buzzed around the mess of his thoughts like a damn mosquito intent on either pissing him off until he got up to swat it or draining him dry until he died, whichever came first.  Laziness failed him, so he opened his eyes to that same all-encompassing darkness and listened.

There was nothing at first, just his heart beating and his breath shallowing venting between his dried lips and the heavy gloom of silence.  Then…

Tony sat up.  He nearly vomited again, his stomach lurching as his brain tried in vain to process his position and prevent dizziness.  But he ignored his nausea, wincing and listening harder.  The sound came again.  It was a scream.  Very faint and slightly strange sounding, muffled by the walls around him.  Silence.  Then it came again.  It was hoarse, long and desperate and filled with pain.  A man’s voice.  “No…” he whispered.  He knew that voice.  _Steve._

This was a goddamn nightmare.  It had to be.  He was dreaming they were back down in hell, back in the silo.  That was why they’d dragged him here.  And he was dreaming about hearing Steve screaming, just like he’d heard him back then, because this was all just a variation on some PTSD-induced pile of bullshit.  He was imagining that they were hurting him, hurting Steve and Clint, leaving them to die…  He wasn’t even awake.  That was why nothing seemed right, why he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here.   _Here_ didn’t exist.  _I’m at home.  Having a nightmare.  I’ll wake up in my room, warm in my bed.  Safe.  Pepper’s going to be right there with me.  And Steve’s in his bed.  And Clint’s in his._   _We’re all okay and safe and no one’s taken us._ Yeah, that was it.  This was a nightmare.  That made sense, didn’t it?  A grotesque, screwed up, gruesome but _entirely not real_ nightmare.  It had to be.  No one could be so patently unlucky as to be in a situation like this _twice_ in a year.  That sort of crap did not happen, not even to them.  The old scientific precept of Occam’s Razor wound its way through his fevered thoughts, throwing fuel onto his hopeful fire.  _The simplest explanation is the right one._ And there was no way in hell this could happen to them again. _No way in hell.  So I’m dreaming.  All I have to do is wake myself up, right?_

The horrific bang that shook the darkness and shattered the quiet fairly well answered that question.  Terror jolted through Tony, sending his heart into a frantic race, but he didn’t wake up.  Despite the noise and the shock, he was still right there in this hell.  He scrambled to his knees.  Light brighter than light had any right to be sliced through the blackness.  He whirled, wincing as the throbbing of his skull intensified exponentially.  The sounds of a scuffle filled the void.  A man barked something in German.  A split second later, a shadow was shoved through the light and the door slammed shut with another clang that vibrated the room.  Just like that, it was pitch black once more.

Tony couldn’t breathe.  Someone or something was in here with him now.  He didn’t know whether to be terrified or relieved.  Terror won out, and he held utterly still, listening, staring blindly into the darkness _._   A groan nearly made him jump out of his skin.  He couldn’t keep his gasp silent.

“Who’s there?” a familiar voice asked.

 _Oh, thank God._ His relief nearly dropped him to his knees.  “Clint?”

“Tony?”  There was the sound of clothes rustling, of skin catching and sticking and sliding on that smooth surface of the floor, of Clint struggling to his feet.  “Tony?  Where…”

Heart pounding and eyes burning (he was _not_ going to cry, damn it!), he immediately raised his arms out and stepped forward.  “Here.  Here!  Can you follow my voice?”

Clint paused a moment, and for that fraction of a second, Tony worried the other man had vanished, that he’d be alone again.  How could he even tell what was real in here?  But Clint released a slow, pained breath.  “Yeah.  Yeah, can you keep talking?”

“You’re actually _asking_ me to talk?  Wow.  Hell hath frozen over,” Tony quipped, hoping the levity hid how shaken he was.

It didn’t, but Clint said nothing about it.  He was breathing heavily, the quivering gusts of him exhaling so weirdly comforting that Tony found that he was pacing his own breathing against it.  “Mark it in your calendars,” he retorted.  Tony grunted a weak laugh, listening to Clint shuffling around.  The other man’s gait sounded a little off, like he, too, was limping.  Tony realized he still had his hands up like a goddamn zombie, and he flushed and dropped them (not that anyone could see it, but still).  “You’re not talking, Stark.”

“Sorry.”  He cleared his incredibly dry throat and tried to make his brain think.  It sounded like Clint was timidly walking around.  “Watch your step.  I, uh…”  There was a gross squish.  Tony winced.  “Sorry.”

Clint didn’t sound too upset.  “Ugh.  Awesome.  Thanks for the warning.”

“No problem.”  The other man grunted, wiping his shoe on the floor if the sound was any indication.  “Any idea what the hell happened?  Because I can’t remember a thing.”

“No.  I think they drugged us.”  _Not a concussion then._   Through all of the disorientation, he hadn’t thought to actually examine his skull.  He dragged his fingers through his hair, feeling like a damn idiot.  No blood.  No welts or broken skin or worse.  No pain (at least nothing external).  _God, I’m dumb._ The haze in his head was drug-induced.  That made sense, he supposed.  “Last thing I know for sure was…”  He grunted, like he, too, was hurt by even trying to recollect whatever had led them here.  “Something happened to Steve.  They… they wanted him.  They did something to him.”

Tony remembered that, too.  Not very clearly.  An image of Steve sprawled on the floor, his maroon shirt the color of blood, and Clint panicked and hovering over him.  Trying to protect him.  Trying to rouse him.  _“Stark, he’s not waking up!  Steve!  Steve!  Cap!”_

Harsh words spat at them.  A face from his nightmares looming over them.  Steve, struggling to stand.  Struggling to fight.  Struggling.  _“I can’t do it…  I can’t…”_

Shaking the disturbing thoughts away, Tony sniffled and tried to compose himself.  “Have you seen him?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

He could practically feel Clint shake his head.  “No.”  The admission was soft.  Extremely worried and more than a little frightened.  “You?”

Tony felt sick again.  “I heard him.”

Clint was still.  Silent.  “So did I.”

All he could do was close his eyes.  Every hope that this was a nightmare had been dashed when they’d thrown Clint in here with him, but knowing the archer had heard their captain screaming, too?  There was no chance this wasn’t real, no possibility he was back in his penthouse trapped in a horrible dream, tossing and turning with Pepper trying to wake him up.  _This was really happening._

He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone grabbed him.  It was just Clint, of course.  “Easy,” the other man said.  He, too, was breathing hard, and his fingers curled possessively into Tony’s arm.  He shifted to tangle them into Tony’s shirt, yanking him closer.  “Jesus.”

Tony let himself be embraced; there wasn’t much choice in it, actually.  Clint’s arms were like iron around him.  Barton might have been on the shorter side, but he had so much strength packed into him.  The slight trepidation Tony always felt at contact like this didn’t long inhibit him, and he squeezed his teammate right back.  “What the hell, right?” he said.  “Not like this is the first time we’ve hugged in a shithole like this.”

Clint barked a laugh into Tony’s shoulder, clutching the other man tighter.  “A manly hug, right?”

“Right.”

“Here at the end of all things?” Clint whispered.  He meant it to be a joke, but it wasn’t funny.  _The beginning this time, it seems._ Clint collected himself and pulled away, careful not to let go, though.  He sniffled this time.  “HYDRA.  That much I know.  Nazi assholes.  Is it…”

_Zemo._

There wasn’t much of a chance to discuss that (or even think about it really) because that distant sound came back.  _Steve._   He was screaming loudly, desperately, crying until his voice cut off from lack of air.  Clint stiffened before wrenching away, leaving Tony reeling.  He didn’t quite share Tony’s fear of getting lost in here because he very boldly rushed to wherever he was going, his boots thunderous in the vacuous quiet.  “Stop it!  Leave him alone!  You goddamn bastards!”  He found the wall and started pounding, pounding hard and fast like that could get the attention of whoever was hurting – _torturing_ – Steve.  “ _Leave him alone!_ I’ll kill everyone last one of you!  Do you hear me?  I’ll–”

“Clint, it’s no use,” Tony said.  “Easy.  Stop.”

Clint didn’t stop, furiously banging a moment more until his strength gave out.  He swore viciously, and Tony could hear him slump into the wall.  The echo of his shouting, of his fists and feet, was slow to recede, but it did, and when it did there was nothing besides their harsh breathing and shuddering heartbeats to fill the silence.  Wherever Steve was, he was quiet again.  Just imagining what was happening to him was too damn much, and Tony shivered in the cold air.  Shivered and tried not to think.

Footsteps filled the void.  “Tony?  Where are you?”

“Still here, feathers,” he murmured.  His voice sounded weak and tremulous, even in the emptiness.  “Haven’t moved.”  _Can’t move.  Can’t do anything.  Not again.  Please, for the love of God, not again._

Clint seemed to have a better sense of direction than he did because he found his way back after a few seconds.  A hand fumbled against his back, again the fingers curling tight in his shirt.  Tony jerked despite himself.  Moving, speaking, _thinking_ …  It all hurt too much.  “We have to help him,” Clint whispered desperately.  “We have to.”

_How?_

The blackness pressed down on them, driving helplessness into their hearts.  There was nothing they could do.  No way they could reach Steve or stop these bastards – whoever they were – from hurting him.  All they could do was wait.

So they did.  Staying close to each other in the darkness, hands on each other’s arms, side by side to maintain constant contact, they sat and they waited.  They didn’t talk.  There was nothing to say.  The fog in Tony’s head still wasn’t lifting, not enough to clearly think.  Not enough to remember.  Not enough to do anything but shiver through each endless second, one after another after another, marked by only frustration and fear and fury.  Mounting despair.  Mounting misery.  Waiting for life or death or whatever came to them.  Just like before.  Just like when they’d been trapped in the silo, waiting for Steve to save them.  Something told him that Steve might not be saving them this time.

Despite all that, the long, _long_ parade of emptiness spent doing nothing but worrying and waiting, it still came as a complete shock when the lights turned on.  Tony cried out and Clint swore harshly, both of them burying their throbbing eyes into their arms.  Clint recovered faster, scrambling forward onto his knees and rising.  “Stark!”

As his eyes adapted to the harsh lights blasting down on them from the fixtures above, Tony slowly stood as well.  He didn’t know what he’d expected.  Not this.  _Not this._   “Holy shit,” he whispered.

They were in a room, a fairly sizeable, rectangular space that was devoid of any furniture, equipment, or decorations, just as he’d suspected.  That wasn’t what was interesting.  The room place glass walls on three sides save for the one behind them where the door was.  _Glass walls_ , probably composed of some sort of polycarbonate that was seemingly yards thick, and his and Clint’s reflections shone back at them on the sleek, perfect surface, bright and eerie.  Beyond the walls, it was dark, so damn dark, as black as it had been inside a moment ago.  Tony gazed in stupefaction, jaw hanging unabashedly open.  _Where…_   He looked down and saw the floor was the same as the walls, and it _looked_ like he was standing over an interrupted, fathomless abyss.  “What the hell?”  He turned around, alarmed and shocked beyond rational thought.  “What…”

“Where are we?” Clint gasped.  “What is this?”

Cautiously Tony limped to the glass wall in front of them.  He planted his hands against it.  It was absolutely perfect, without flaw or seam.  Whatever this place was, whoever had built it…  Somebody with smarts and a lot of money was behind it.  _HYDRA, of course._   He peered outside.  _It can’t be just blackness.  Can’t be._ This was crazy.  There _had_ to be something out there.  A million ridiculous ideas borne of science fiction and fantasy whirled in his head.  Outer space?  Inner space?  Another dimension?  _Think, Stark._ Before he could dismiss any of that, however, something surged out of the darkness just beyond his nose.  It was a blur of pasty gray with vicious eyes and a mouth full of needle teeth coming _right_ at him, and Tony gave a wrangled cry in backpedaled in horror.

It wasn’t the hideous monster it had first seemed to be.  Well, it was ugly as hell, but Tony recognized what it was.  _A fish_.  The sort he’d seen in documentaries.  The sort that thrived in frigid depths, that never saw daylight, grotesque and freaky, ugly abominations that looked ancient because evolution didn’t move too quick down here where the external forces of chaos and life were rather minimal.  _Down here._   “We’re underwater,” Tony quietly declared, eyes wide.  He turned to look at Clint.  “Underwater.”

“What?” Clint snapped, coming to stand beside him.  In the light, Tony could see his face was bruised and his arm was still sluggishly bleeding.  He was definitely limping, too.  He was pale, shaking his head like he couldn’t understand.  “That’s not…”  The fish swam away outside.  Outside.  Where those glass walls and the glass floor were all that separated them from the devastating pressure that the tons of crushing water were causing.  “Holy hell.”

“At the bottom of the ocean.”  Tony shook his head, shocked beyond belief.  Horrified.  _Panicked._   He shared another glance with Clint, and the other man was breathing shallowly, every bit as disturbed.

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t–”

The door banged open.  A slew of men came in, guards bearing automatic rifles that they immediately pointed at the two Avengers.  Now, with things brightly lit and infinitely clearer, Tony could see they were dressed in black and red with the crimson skull and cephalopod of HYDRA sewn into their shoulders.  Behind them, flanked by his soldiers, another man came in.  His face was completely obscured by a purple shawl, the thick fabric seemingly molded to his brow, eye sockets, and cheekbones before flaring away from his face and draping more loosely.  Dark eyes stared at them.  Cold, dark eyes.  Vicious.  And familiar.  Tony recognized them instantly.  It was Baron Zemo.  Zemo, hidden behind this veil because his _face_ had been melted _off_ from exposure to Adhesive X.  Zemo, the madman who’d left them to die at the bottom of that abandoned ICBM silo.  Zemo was back.

And he was getting his revenge.

It wasn’t surprising.

“Iron Man,” the HYDRA leader greeted coolly.  He turned to appraise Clint.  “And Hawkeye.  Once again you’ve found your way into my clutches.”

At least Clint had the wherewithal to snark at him.  “Found our way, huh?  You make it sound like you didn’t kidnap us.  Again.”  The archer glared at him, belying the little smirk curling his lips.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoy our company.”

Zemo was about as over the top and humorless as Tony remembered.  “Enjoy it?  All I enjoy of it is seeing you suffer.  And suffer you will.  Mark my words, the Avengers will fall and I will fulfill my father’s legacy.”

“This time.”  Tony couldn’t help himself.  No matter how much he hurt, no matter how frightened and worried he was, he couldn’t fight it.  “You forgot that.  A ‘this time’.  Since, you know, last time your plans for world domination were pretty handily foiled by us.  And you pretty spectacularly failed to kill us, too.  Oh-for-two on that whole endeavor.  Daddy probably rolled over in his grave just a little.”

Zemo stiffened in poorly disguised rage.  “Such high talk,” he retorted.  “You are at my mercy!”

It probably wasn’t wise to bait him.  Maybe the guy was like a bad caricature of a Bond villain, but he was cruel and evil.  A vindictive son of a bitch to be certain.  And he carried a grudge, _a bad one._ They’d escaped the prison in which they’d been left last time, but it had been by the skin of their teeth.  All three of them had almost died.  This was no laughing matter.  However, doing things when he shouldn’t was something of a specialty of Tony’s.  He was an _expert_ at being a smart ass.  “Oh, we’re at his mercy, Clint.  I’m quivering in fear.  Really.  Aren’t you?”  He turned back to Zemo.  “What, you can’t tell?  This is my scared-shitless face.”  One of the thugs (maybe the guy who’d yelled at him before?) gritted his teeth and shoved his rifle at Tony.  “Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time I’ve had a henchman stick his gun in my face.”  He appraised the man, hiding just how scared he actually was.  “New uniforms?  The red on the black looks snazzy.  Classic, really.  Says blood and darkness.  Who’s your tailor?”

“Silence!” Zemo bellowed.  “Stark, you will learn to control your mouth or we shall rid you of your tongue.”  Tony shut up.  The memories of them smashing his arm to pieces alone were enough to ward him away from saying anything further.  “You will be quiet.  You will not challenge me.  My reasons for taking you are far more mundane and self-serving than they are for your captain, so you must understand that you are only alive because I have _allowed_ you to be.  And I have allowed you to be so that you can see just how much I’ve won before I kill you.”

That made Tony’s blood turn to ice water.  He didn’t know what to say.  All of his fears from before…  “Where’s Rogers?” Clint demanded, his eyes narrowed into a vicious glare.  The raw desperation in his tone yanked Tony out of his horrified stupor.  “Where is he?”

The Baron’s face was hidden, of course, so Tony couldn’t see his smile.  But he could practically picture it, _feel_ it, a sadistic, gleeful thing.  The same awful grin he’d had when he’d taunted Tony at the bottom of the silo months ago.  “I know he was the reason you escaped last time.  There was no way you two, as pathetically weak and wounded as you were, could have managed it.  He saved you, yes?  Kept you going.  Carried you up.”  Zemo practically vibrated with rage and frustration.  “Captain America, so indomitable.  So brave and strong.  So powerful.  So… _perfect._ ”  He spat the word with so much venom and vitriol that Tony couldn’t help but wince.  “Not anymore.”

 _Oh, God._   “What did you do to him?” Tony demanded, heart hammering wildly against his sternum.  Zemo simply stared at him, probably grinning like the vicious, _jealous_ bastard he was.  “Answer me!  What did you to him _?_ ”

“Returned him,” Zemo replied, “to what he was supposed to be.  And restored to us the glory of what should have been ours.  HYDRA has been laboring for the secrets to Erskine’s serum for seventy-five years.  Now they’re _mine._ ”

 _What…_   Clint glanced at Tony, his face ashen underneath the bruises.  _Oh, God.  Steve…_   “Where is he?”  Again, the bastard said nothing, watching them smugly.  Tony lost all semblance of his patience.  “You sick son of a bitch.  _Where is he?_ ”

Zemo actually laughed.  There was movement behind him.  “Captain America is dead, gentlemen,” he boldly announced, raising his arms in victory.  “Murdered.  Drained dry of everything that made him a hero.  What’s left is a husk, the pathetic remains of Erskine’s dream.  I’ll let you have that.”  Like a captor throwing his prisoners some scraps.  Zemo stepped aside.  “Behold, your mighty First Avenger.”

Two men from the back came forward, dragging someone between them.  Someone half naked.  Someone small.  _Small._   Pale flesh marred with bruises and welts.  Skinny arms and legs.  Knobby elbows and knees, scraped and bloodied.  A narrow chest lined with ribs that were so obvious, a crooked spine and jutting collarbones.  Skin so white and thin pulled over delicate baby bird bones and a concave stomach and…  _No._ Blond hair, sweat-slicked and mussed.  Half-lidded blue eyes full of pain and shock.  _No._   That was the only thought left in Tony’s stricken brain.  Denial.  _No._ It couldn’t be.  This couldn’t be.  He _was_ dreaming.  He was having the world’s worst nightmare, because _this couldn’t be happening…_

But it was.  The two men pulling Steve stopped right in front of Tony and Clint before unceremoniously dumping him onto the floor.  He hit hard, and he didn’t move.  He just lay there, eyes now tightly closed, barely shivering, barely even wheezing.  The two Avengers _stared_ in horror and disbelief.  It was all gone.  The muscles.  The height.  The glow of endless health and incredible vitality.  The amazing strength and immeasurable endurance…  It was like it had vanished, like it had _never_ been there at all.  They were staring at Steve Rogers as he had been in 1943, before Project: Rebirth, before Doctor Erskine had selected him for his highly experimental procedure, before Captain America had been born.  Steve Rogers, sick and frail and small.  Little Steve Rogers.

Captain America was gone.

Tony couldn’t think.  He couldn’t move or speak.  He couldn’t feel anything but pain.

Clint managed to get control of himself before Tony had even managed to suck in a breath.  The archer crouched and immediately threw himself over Steve, and there was fire raging in his eyes.  His normal stoicism had been blasted away by unrestrained panic.  “You goddamn bastard!  How…  Oh, Jesus.  Get away from him!”  He shook his head, trembling and pulling Steve protectively against him.  “Stay away!”

Zemo chuckled.  “Gladly.  I have no use for him now.”  His smirk shone in his eyes.  “He’s all yours.”

With that, they turned to leave.  Clint gasped a tremoring sob, staring at Steve’s body underneath him, shaking his head adamantly, like _that_ could somehow have the power to make this not true.  Nothing could.  _Nothing could._   “Tony…”

Tony simply lost it.  He ran toward the door, fury pumping through his veins, desperation hot and hard in his gut.  He needed to stop them, make them undo this, make this right, _save Captain America._ “You son of a bitch!” he screamed.  “You can’t just leave us like this!  How could you?  _How could­–”_

He was smacked across the face with a rifle.  Pain exploded along his jaw, arcing into his brain like lightning.  Vaguely he heard Clint shouting.  Vaguely he heard the door slam shut.  He wasn’t sure if he lost consciousness or the lights simply went out again.  It didn’t matter.  Once more he was falling, falling down into the cold, deep darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Halt die Klappe!_ – Shut your mouth!  
>  _Nicht sprechen!_ – No talking.


	2. Chapter 2

_Avengers Tower  
_ _The night before_

“You’re cheating, Stark.”

“Am not, Barton.”

“Are too.”

“What are you, five?”

“Stop hitting me!”

“Well, you’re in my way.”

“Stop it!”

“Make me.”

“Oh, come on!”  Clint gave a frustrated grunt and dropped his controller.  “I don’t know why I even bother,” he groused, flopping back on the couch.  “You have JARVIS hacked into this.  I can tell.”

Tony grinned smartly as he streaked past the other racers on the game.  The huge screen before them was blindingly bright in the dimmed common room where he, Clint, and Steve had gathered for the evening.  There was probably no reason the game had to be this big (or this loud), but Tony had to admit it was pretty rewarding to see everything in such _fine detail_ as he flew into first place (where he belonged, naturally).  It was probably petty (okay, it was definitely petty), but he tossed his controller with smug flair and leaned back as well, giving a satisfied “ah”.  “It’s Newton’s first law, Clint.  Things in motion tend to stay in motion unless acted upon by an opposing force.  Like me smacking your butt around the track.  Over and over and over–”

“How about the first law of being a jackass?  Never admit to being a jackass.”

“Hey, I resemble that remark.”

Clint eyed him suspiciously.  It was all in good fun, of course, but no one could deny the two of them got a little heated when it came to friendly competition.  This night was no exception.  It had been quiet of late, with HYDRA mostly crushed and defeated.  The organization, as old and evil as it was, had fairly well scattered to the wind.  Of course, none of the Avengers were naïve or foolhardy enough to think HYDRA was dead and gone.  There were factions still operating around the globe, small and fairly ineffective at this point, but that didn’t mean they’d necessarily stay that way.  And, of course, some of HYDRA’s head henchmen were out there.  Strucker.  _Zemo._   That bastard had been silent since the disaster in the missile silo in Latveria.  He’d sworn his revenge on Captain America, but apparently he wasn’t interested in making sure the job had gotten done.  They hadn’t heard a thing from him.

That was all well and good because as far as Tony was concerned, Zemo could stay down whatever hole in which he was currently hiding.  It was naïve to think he’d _never_ be back.  After the hell from which he, Clint, and Steve had barely escaped, though, Tony was more than content to be naïve.  Ignorance was bliss after all.  This wasn’t to say their merry band of superhero misfits wasn’t _trying_ to track Zemo, Strucker, and HYDRA’s other principal miscreants.  Well, Steve was.  Fury and Hill were.  The Avengers were continually on the look-out, prepared to stop HYDRA whenever it rose again, ready to stomp it out the second it sprouted up through the ashes.  JARVIS was continually monitoring the globe, looking for signs of trouble.  The next time Zemo or anyone else tried to flood a continent with evil glue or eradicate every threat to them with one massive, worldwide strike, the Avengers would put a stop to it before it even got started.

Until then, though, he wasn’t going to worry about it too much.  He was content not to.  Six months had passed since they’d escaped the silo, and the injuries had long since healed (for the most part – his arm still throbbed sometimes).  Everything had gone back to normal.  Even the nightmares were fading, though Tony still found it wasn’t uncommon for him to be assailed by one (either from the hellish misery Zemo had caused or from one of the _many_ other hellish miseries he’d endured before that).  Quite often he’d get up, unable to get himself back to sleep and unwilling to disturb Pepper, only to find Steve or Clint here in the common room, half dazed in the light of the television or staring at a book without reading it or nursing a drink while blearily waiting for the sun to rise.  They’d all been scarred.  Tony sometimes stared at the damage done to his arm, at the bones that were restored but not the same, at the ridges of puckered scar tissue that hadn’t quite gone away.  He’d gotten almost all of his functionality back, but he was good enough with his hands that he _knew_ it wasn’t the way it was even if no one else noticed.  Nothing was the way it had been, really.  Clint had recovered his sight, too, but he still suffered from migraines now and again that Bruce feared might be permanent.  Even Steve.  Steve was fortunate enough thanks to the serum not to have a mark on him despite all the wounds he’d sustained getting them up the seven levels of the silo to the top before climbing out, not to mention the injuries he’d been “gifted” by Zemo’s men before they’d been left for dead.  But the soldier had been struggling with sleeping more often than anyone, sketching in the common room until it was light out, catching up on all the movies Tony had recommended, reading an endless pile of books.  Not that Tony had JARVIS keeping an eye on him or anything.  It was just another symptom of the ordeal; they were bonded together now in ways they hadn’t been before.  They’d been friends, sure, but enduring what they had together, the pain and despair and the terror, the desperate fight to climb, to escape, to _live_ …  That tended to form connections that went deeper than friendship.  Brotherhood.  And Tony and Clint both knew Steve was still unsettled that the whole thing had just _ended_ , almost like it had never happened at all.

So it wasn’t at all surprising that Steve didn’t quite share Tony’s inclination to just let it go.  It made sense and not just because Steve was something of a stickler for staying on the ball and doing the right thing.  It had been Zemo’s crazy plot to get revenge on Captain America that had caused the disaster in Leipzig to begin with, and it had been that hatred that had probably landed the three of them at the bottom of a rusted-out, dilapidated, abandoned missile silo.  Furthermore, Steve _still_ felt a bit guilty for what had happened to them both, Clint in particular.  It was absolutely freaking ridiculous, but that was Captain America for you.  If there was a way for him to feel responsible for something going wrong, he did.  Tony could tell he was frustrated that Zemo and the other leftovers from HYDRA hadn’t yet shown themselves.  Normally he wasn’t given to optimism, but Tony kept telling Steve that it probably meant they were gone, that they weren’t going to come back or try anything stupid (like flooding Europe with Adhesive X) again.  For once, Steve was the doubtful one, the realist, and it was driving Tony a little nuts.

Like now.  The three of them were alone in the Tower.  _Alone,_ alone. They had _the whole place_ to themselves.  Thor had returned to Asgard for a stretch to deal with what he termed as “intergalactic riff-raff”.  Bruce was away on one of his many humanitarian/research/meditative sabbaticals, and he wasn’t due back until next week.  Natasha had left to help Fury with an operation that she had not so kindly said was “none of their damn business” when Tony had questioned her about it.  Not even Clint knew the details, and Clint was the one of them who had the best shot of learning anything.  And Pepper was in Malibu, dealing with the ornery board of Stark Industries as they negotiated their way through a new government contract.  It was only the three of them: Tony, Clint, and Steve.  Tony had immediately declared that they should make a fun night of it.  He’d ordered a crap ton of highly unhealthy and utterly irredeemable fast food loaded with sugar, fat, and carbs.  He’d set up the common room with an endless selection of movies and video games.  And he’d summoned the other two for a late night of not doing _anything_ other than eating, playing, and screwing around.  Ever since the silo, he’d promised himself (and them) that they’d make a habit of spending time like this (wasting time really).  Team-bonding, he’d called it to win Steve over on the idea.  Steve, who had a hard time switching off for one damn second.

 _Like right now._   Tony had a whole room full of ridiculous food and ridiculous toys and ridiculous stuff to do, and Captain Stick-Up-His-Butt was _working_.  He’d barely eaten (well, barely for him), barely paid attention to the movies they’d watched, barely participated in the running commentary.  It was well after midnight, and he was _still_ at it, eyes still keen and sharp as he read.  Tony knew what he was doing, too, what was all over the StarkPads neatly gathered on the one small section of the coffee table not cluttered with empty take-out boxes and beer bottles.  He tried not to sound as frustrated with his friend as he felt.  “Your surveillance reports can wait, Rogers.  It’s your turn.”

“Yeah, knock him down, Cap,” Clint added.  He was remarkably perceptive and not just about targets on a battlefield.  Tony was appreciating that about him more and more every day.  The archer picked up his discarded controller and thrust it toward Steve.  “Show him what for.”

For his own part, Steve was no idiot.  Tony knew he knew that they were doing.  They’d been at it for weeks now, trying to get him to relax and not stress so much.  The problem was he was so damn stubborn.  That had likely saved their lives before, but right now?  It wouldn’t kill him to just let go a bit.  That (and the two waiting stares focused sternly on him) was probably what motivated him to take the offered controller.  “I hate this game,” he grumbled with a sigh.

“You hate that you lose all the time,” Tony corrected, not even trying to hide his smirk.

“Hey,” Steve said in fake irritation (well, mostly fake), “I can beat Thor.”

Tony started up the game again, and the next race colorfully burst onto the screen.  “Anyone can beat Thor.  He spends half the time going backwards.”

“Haha,” Steve said.  The race started, and he leaned forward, holding the controller.  Despite all the times they’d played this game together, Steve still didn’t seem to quite understand that _small_ motions were necessary to make the racer move on the screen.  Everything with him was huge and exaggerated.  He might have been the world’s best tactician and a phenomenal artist, a real expert with his hands, but he was shit at playing Mario Kart.  And it was so deliciously easy to beat him, even easier than it was to beat Barton.  Steve winced as he drove Luigi right into a wall.  Tony slowed down just to smack him with a shell for good measure.  “I hate you more than I hate this game.”

Tony cackled.  “Where’s that indomitable spirit?  Where’s all that patriotic swagger?  Where–”

“Give it a rest,” Clint interrupted.  He hopped over the back of the couch.  “You guys want another beer?”

Steve steered Luigi right off a narrow bridge and ended up in the river.  He sighed.  “I know for a fact there isn’t anything on this planet that’s strong enough to get me drunk enough to enjoy playing this with you.”

“Ouch,” Tony said.

“But, yeah, another.  Please.”

Clint grinned and headed to the kitchen.  “Speaking of Thor, did he say when he’d be back?  It’s so… _quiet_ around here without him.”

“Not to me.  Oh, suck it!  Suck it!” Tony roared, getting more animated as he flew yet again into first place.  The computer was really no match for him, frankly.  He was writing AIs more intelligent than this when he was in high school, JARVIS not included.  “A little peace and quiet never hurt anyone.”

He could hear Clint open the door of the fridge and rattle around inside.  “Yeah, well.”  He popped the top off one of the bottles and took a long drink before closing the fridge.  “It’s a little _too_ quiet.”  He returned, jumping over the back of the couch again to land with a thump next to Tony that jostled him pretty well.

Tony frowned in irritation when he was knocked and his racer fell off the track in turn.  Clint smiled sweetly before he thrust the other bottle of beer he held right in front of Tony’s face toward Steve, making Tony jerk to the left.  Off the track he went again.  “You jerk,” Tony said, standing so that he could see as Steve made a production out of grabbing for the beer bottle without moving from his spot.  “Damn it!”

“Oh, sorry.  Sorry,” Steve said with a fake gasp.  “Can’t… can’t quite get it there.  Clint, maybe you could…”

“Yeah.  Yeah, it’s no problem.”  Barton stood and walked in front of him, and Tony drove right off the same bridge where Steve had fallen before.  “Whoops.  Sorry, Stark.  Am I in your way?  That’s pretty thoughtless of me.”

“You guys are jerks,” Tony snarled.  “Grade-A.  A for assholes obviously.”

Clint laughed.  “Payback and all that,” he chided.  Steve finally took his beer bottle and thumbed the top off.  Clint sat next to him, snatching the controller out of his hand and setting his own drink down on the coffee table.  “You really are pathetic at this game, Steve.”  He capably drove Steve’s racer out of a pit of obstacles where he’d been lagging in last place and rejoined the race.  “Like seriously pathetic.”

“Not arguing against that,” Steve said, making a move for his StarkPads again.

Clint pushed them away, nearly knocking an empty pizza box to the floor.  “No.”

“But–”

Tony grabbed said pads and moved even further out of Steve’s immediate reach.  “ _No,_ Cap.  This is supposed to be fun, and you’re ruining it with your annoying work ethic.”  Steve’s eyes flashed a little.  Tony caught it when he spared a glance at the soldier.  “Leave it.”

“Come on, guys.  You just said it.  It’s too quiet.  The other shoe’s gonna drop.  I can _feel_ it, and I’d rather have the jump on HYDRA than them gettin’ the jump on us.”

“So would I,” Clint said.  He hissed, swerving but managing to avoid a shell lobbed at him.  “But said jump does not need to be gotten tonight.”  The next shell smacked him dead on, and he fell off that stupid bridge yet again.  “Oh, now you’re just rubbing salt into the wound, Tony!”

“Haha!” Tony yelled as he _lapped_ Clint.  He jetted over the finish line, not quite in first place this time thanks to the distractions, but still far ahead of his competition.  Victory music started to loudly play, confetti and streamers flying.  “I rule.”

Steve grunted, shaking his head.  “I’m siding with Clint.  You have this thing rigged.”

“JARVIS?” Tony prompted.

“As much as I would… _enjoy_ taking Mr. Stark down a notch, I’m afraid I must confirm that I am not influencing the outcome of the game,” JARVIS smoothly replied, “nor have I detected an overt signs of subterfuge or sabotage.”

Tony grinned cheekily.  He took his own beer bottle from the table, tossing his controller triumphantly to the couch beside him once more before leaning back and downing an impressive gulp.  “That’s right,” he said, pointing at the other two men.  “You guys are just sore losers.”  That gave Steve pause.  Tony could see it in the way he looked, the way his lips tightened into a frown, the way his eyes hardened.  He sighed, rolling his own eyes.  “I know what you’re thinking, Steve.”

“What am I thinking?” Steve returned, not doing much to restrain his irritation (and frustration).

Tony rolled his eyes again after sharing a long-suffering look with Clint.  “Yes, Zemo is a sore loser, too.  And, yes, he’s probably pissed as all hell and planning something somewhere.  And, _yes_ , I’m sure he’ll be back, probably to make another ill-fated attempt to destroy the world and bring us down in the process.  And, yes, we need to be assembled and ready, which we’re not right at the moment.  And, yes, we will be, and we will very handily and sexily thwart him _again_.”  Steve scowled.  “But, _no_ , none of that needs to happen tonight.”  He took Steve’s tablets right off the table and tossed them onto the couch now way out of the captain’s reach.  “Take a chill pill.”

Steve’s face crinkled in confusion.  “A what?”

Now it was Clint who rolled his eyes.  “Outdated awful references will only confuse him further.”  The archer shut the game off and reached for the remote to switch to something else.  “A night off isn’t going to kill you or change the course of our fight against HYDRA one way or another, especially when nothing seems to be happening.  So relax.  You want to play Madden?  I know you’re better at that.”

Steve grumbled, “You guys don’t need to babysit me.”

“You think this was about you?” Tony sputtered, getting up to switch the discs in the gaming console.  “Maybe I still like hanging out with you!  Maybe I’m making good on that promise I made, you know, back down when things were going to shit.”

“I know,” Steve said with a wince.

“Not everything has an ulterior motive.”  Steve gave him a patented Captain America look of dubiousness, the sort that normally had you rethinking what could be bad behavior.  “We need to spend some downtime together.  And not just when we’re too doped on painkillers and banged up to move around and end up hanging out by default.  Come on!  The night is young.  The place is empty.  I know wasting time vegetating in front of the TV offends your golden age sensibilities, but the _whole_ game room is set up downstairs.  You wanna shoot some pool?  Table hockey?  Darts?”  Clint smirked as he obviously recalled the last time they’d done that (and how much of an ass he’d been about kicking everyone’s collective asses), so Tony glared at him.  “Don’t even start.”

Steve smiled, but it was a tired smile.  “I just can’t stand sitting here and doing nothing, especially with everyone separated like this.”

“We’ve noticed,” Tony replied.  “So you’re going to finish your beer.  Then I’ve got cookies, like _really_ good cookies, and some more chips and you’re going to beat Clint at football and unwind a little.  You don’t need to be Captain America all the time.”

Steve frowned, like that didn’t compute in that serum-enhanced brain of his.  “I was actually thinking about going to bed.  It’s late.”

It was, theoretically.  It was on its way to one in the morning.  But Tony was a night owl and Clint could be, too, when it suited him and Steve didn’t need sleep like normal people did, so that excuse was nonsense.  Clint picked up on it immediately.  “No, you’re not.”

“Yeah,” Tony added, “you’re going to go back to your room and bury yourself back in crap for Fury or Avengers stuff or watching the digital paint peel on your scan for HYDRA.”  Steve gave him a withering look.  “What?  You will.”

“Like you’re one to talk.”

“Hey, we all have our obsessions.  I don’t deny mine.  But mine aren’t predicated on some paranoid belief that Armageddon is nigh and HYDRA is coming _right now_ to attack the Tower and kick our butts.  Mine aren’t based on the assumption that we can’t even have _one_ night of fun without the lights going ou–”

There was something that felt like a clap of thunder, but it was all force and no sound.  An unsettling pop.  Then the lights did go out.

Tony stopped in his tracks instantly as suddenly the starry sky, the full moon, and the city skyline glowing through the large windows of the common room turned into the only source of illumination.  He looked around, eyes wide, heart picking up its pace in alarm.  “Uh, well…  That’s creepy.”

Steve was on his feet instantly.  In the shadows, Tony could see the outline of his muscles, the bright glow of his narrowed blue eyes.  “JARVIS, what’s the story?”  There was no answer.  The room was utterly silent without the constant whir of the Tower’s power systems and air recyclers.  It was eerie.  “JARVIS?”

No JARVIS.  “Tony, what’s going on?” Clint asked.  He, too, was on his feet, scanning their darkened surroundings sharply.  “What happened?”

Tony fished his phone out of his pocket.  It was constantly connected to the Tower’s computer network, and the minute he saw the screen, he knew something serious had happened.  “Everything’s down.”

“What do you mean, ‘everything’s down’?” Clint said worriedly.

Tony lifted his screen so that the archer could see, trying not to sound as flustered and frustrated as he was suddenly feeling.  The phone was dark, unresponsive.  _Dead_.  “ _Everything’s down_ ,” he repeated again.  He raced across the room to the wall behind the thin, nearly invisible pane of glass that had been the TV.  It was dark, so he whacked his shin on the coffee table in his haste.  “Shit!  Ow!”

“Tony,” Steve said, shaking his head, “everything can’t just go down, right?  Aren’t there backups?”

Obviously he was coming to the same horrifying conclusions Tony was.  “Yeah, yeah, there are backups,” he said breathlessly as he worked at the panel there.  Everything was shut off, and there was nothing he could do.  Aggravated and feeling increasingly alarmed, he slammed his palm to the sleek, _useless_ surface.  “Something’s screwed up bad.  Localized EMP could do it.  A really powerful one.  Shit.”

“What?” Clint asked in exasperation.

Tony shook his head.  “The backups should kick in instantly.  And even if the backups were compromised, the Tower should draw off the city power grid, which is–”  He turned to look outside. “–obviously… okay.  What the hell?”

There was no time to do anything other than drop to the floor when the lights he’d spotted outside seemed to shoot toward them.  Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized it was a helicopter or at least some type of aircraft capable of hovering, but that thought never really garnered much attention as an awful banging down the hall shook the common room.  “Someone’s here!” Clint gasped, pressing himself down between the coffee table and the couch to avoid the searchlights blasting them.

 _No shit!_   Tony cringed at the sound of the doors blowing open down by the elevator.  He thumbed desperately at his phone, but _nothing_ worked.  Whoever these assholes were, they’d completely shut down his network.  The computers that governed the Tower’s systems.  The Tower’s defenses.  JARVIS.  _Iron Man._   With everything disabled, there was no way to get to one of his suits, at least not a way that didn’t involve stairs which seemed rather inaccessible at the moment.  God, he was _naked_ without Iron Man.  All that awful insecurity was back, harsh and heavy, and he pathetically froze for a couple of seconds while Steve and Clint recovered from their shock to take defensive positions behind the couch.  “Tony!” Steve shouted.  The crackle of gunfire sounded distant and nonthreatening, but it wasn’t.  Not distant.  _Definitely_ not nonthreatening.  The flat screen of the television exploded when it was struck, and glass sprayed everywhere.  _God._   They were coming down the hallway in night-vision goggles, the green glow of them bobbing in the shadows.  Panic set in when he realized they were going to have to fight and defend themselves _blind_.  “Tony, take cover!”

Then he remembered he was with Captain America and Hawkeye, two guys who most definitely _did not need_ fancy night vision bullshit to kick ass in the dark.  Steve was already moving, even without his shield, practically dodging gunfire as he leapt over the couch and catapulted himself toward the intruders.  He was a blur, a lighter shadow against darker ones, and he threw something at the group of men coming.  Tony belatedly realized it was a beer bottle, and it smashed apart one of the soldiers with enough force to drop him.  Rogers was fighting like he wasn’t vastly outnumbered (Tony couldn’t see how many thugs there were, but it sounded like a lot) and outgunned.  Captain “It’s only a flesh wound!” America.  “Tony!”  Clint was in the kitchen, ducking beneath a spray of gunfire.  “Tony!”

 _Damn it.  Get a grip._   This was hardly the first time he’d ever been shot at without his suit.  He could manage it.  He wasn’t completely helpless, no matter what Rhodey or anyone else thought.  Keeping low to the floor, he quickly crawled on his belly toward the peninsula.  The cabinets were ripped to shreds, sending wood flying all over him in sharp shards.  It was disconcerting, not really being able to see too well and feeling this rain of needles.  But he got where he needed to go, and Clint was there.  Tony fumbled for the other man’s hands, grasping hard, and Clint hauled him near.  “Jesus,” he breathed, panting as he fell into Clint’s side.  “What the hell is this?”

“Trouble,” Clint seethed.

“That’s pretty damn obvious!”  They were pressed close together, wincing at the fight going on in the shadows just beyond them.  He could hardly see Clint’s face, but there was a shine of sweat on his skin and his eyes were narrowed and dangerous.  And he could hardly see Clint move, but he did see the gun shoved at him.  “What?”

“Nat has them stashed all over the Tower,” Clint muttered, barely audible over the racket.  That took Tony aback, although he supposed it made sense that Black Widow wouldn’t quite trust his security system (at least not enough to abandon building a nest of conveniently placed and hidden weapons).  Apparently that had been a really good thing.  He grabbed the handgun.  “They’re not here to kill us.”

“Huh?”  It didn’t occur to him until after Clint plucked the “bullet” from the peninsula showing very clearly that it wasn’t a bullet but some kind of dart.  Then he realized the gunfire didn’t sound right.  Higher pitch, maybe.  Higher pitch because they were shooting these darts at them.  Darts full of who knew what, but Tony was pretty damn sure he didn’t want to be hit by one.  He didn’t know whether to be relieved this wasn’t a shoot-to-kill situation or terrified it was probably a shoot-to-do-something-worse.  He settled on terrified.

There was a hoarse cry down the blackened corridor.  Clint was already moving, a shadow among shadows as he ran toward the brawl, and Tony could have screamed in frustration.  He couldn’t see a freaking thing, and the gun in his hand felt nothing but heavy.  He knelt there a moment more, listening to the fight and cursing the darkness and his own damn inadequacy, before tipping his head in submission and throwing himself into the fray.

Everything was nothing less than total chaos, but it became obvious right away that these bastards were trying not to hurt them.  Or, at least, trying not to hurt Steve.  That was disturbing, but Steve, a lean, quick figure dancing like a blur in the darkness, was using that to his advantage.  It was fairly easy to spot their foes with their glowing green eyes.  There were more than a dozen of them, and when the searchlights bathed the room from the chopper outside, Tony could see they were dressed in black combat gear and wielding tranquilizer guns.  The different, deeper sound of Clint’s handgun resounded over the grunts and gasps of the melee, and Tony watched as a pair of green lights fell.  And another.  _And another._   Damn, Clint was good, even like this.  Tony didn’t feel comfortable even trying to shoot with the utter pandemonium surrounding him.  In the few seconds that followed, he just tried to stay out of their way and not get killed.

Then the lights blared back on, full force instead of dimmed like they had been before, as the Tower’s systems _finally_ rebooted.  Tony winced at the sudden brightness, dropping to a crouch to protect his eyes and himself.  “Tony!” Steve cried, and he made himself look only to see Rogers struggling to his feet amidst a pile of moaning, groaning bodies on the floor.  He didn’t look right.  Flushed.  Sweating.  Confused, even.  Seemingly more out of it than Tony had ever really seen him be before, and he’d seen Steve in some pretty bad situations.  Steve winced as if with sudden realization, reached behind himself, and pulled a spent dart from his shoulder.  This one was longer than the others, bigger, meant to drive deeper into flesh, and dripping with some sort of clear liquid.  Steve’s eyes went wide as he dropped it to the floor with a clatter.  And there were more spots.  A bleeding puncture wound on his arm.  Another on his thigh.  One in his flank. 

But Steve shook it off, gritted his teeth, and shouted, “Tony, get us Iron Man!”

Before Tony could even check to see if the armor had been restored in the weapons room a few floors below, the windows smashed open.  The first group of soldiers had apparently been just that: a first group.  There was a _flood_ of them now, swinging in through the destroyed windows near the seating area, pounding up the steps and exploding onto the floor from down the hall.  In a blink, the three Avengers gone from outnumbered to _radically_ outnumbered.

And, in a blink, they _swarmed_ Steve.

Steve cried out as he was practically bowled over.  One kick from him sent a man flying dozens of feet, hitting his buddies where they were coming in through the windows, and the whole lot of them tumbled down to their deaths.  He threw another into the wall, smashing right through it, and fought fast and hard.  However, more than two dozen guys were on him, stun batons crackling as they crushed him down to the floor.  Those that weren’t trying to subdue Captain America were driving Tony and Clint back.  Clint was fighting madly, struggling to get to his captain, shouting, and that was the last thing Tony heard clearly.  A concussive grenade went off, tossed into the room by the men coming in through the windows.  He saw it a second before it detonated, and he clapped his hands over his ears (not that that did him any good).  A few more grenades followed it in rapid succession, a sequence of miserable agony pounding over him as they exploded one after another.  Tony felt like he was dying.  It seemed as if his ear drums were bursting, and pain was stabbing through his skull.  The gun slipped from his limp fingers as he went down hard onto his knees, mindlessly curling in on himself.  Through teary eyes, he saw Clint stagger and fall as well.  And he saw more men coming at Steve.  These had a few silver briefcases.  _What the hell?_

Steve’s eyes went wide with terror, and he tried to get away, but _something was wrong._   _Why isn’t he fighting?_ Even buried as he was under a veritable pile of bad guys, he should have been able to beat them.  However, he was seemingly helpless they grabbed him by the arms and shoved him over onto his stomach so that he was prone.  Tony couldn’t see so well now, not with _so many_ men in the way, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could _do_ , not with his brain still painfully reeling and his senses scattered.  Breathing without puking was about the best he could manage, and he groaned with helplessness as he watched the soldiers with the silver cases open them and pull out an array of syringes.

 _Holy shit._   That got him moving again.  Tony choked, bile burning in the back of his throat, and scrambled for his gun.  He found it, rolling onto his knees and pulling the trigger.  The shot hit one of the goons with a case, and he fell, but there was another to snatch up the fallen syringe and take his place.  Tony fired and fired until the magazine was empty.  There was a glint of silver in the light – _needle_ – and Steve was struggling mightily, throwing men left and right, but they were goddamned _determined_ to hold him on the floor and the bastards with the syringes pushed into the pile, barking at the others to _hold him still–_

Oh, God, they were injecting him with something.  _More_ of something.  That first wave had sacrificed itself to slow him down.  Now they were overwhelming him.

“Stark!” Clint cried, and Tony snapped out of it again.  _Get Iron Man._ Steve had told him to get Iron Man.  Right, he could do that.  Ignoring the agony in his head, he wrenched away from the soldiers trying to shoot their tranquilizer guns at him.  Shakily he grabbed his phone from his pocket.  All it took was a tap of his thumb to summon Iron Man.  There were seconds that elapsed, though.  Precious seconds.  Precious seconds in which needles were stabbed deep into Steve while he shouted and flailed.  Seconds in which one of those damn darts found its way into Tony’s thigh.  He immediately felt _warm_ , his muscles going just a little limp, his joints turning feeble, his mind fuzzy and uncooperative.  _Oh, no._ _“Stark!”_

Iron Man burst upward through the floor (emergency protocols tended to do that), and before Tony could even realize he’d been drugged, the armor was folding itself around him.  The familiar, comforting weight of it barely reached through the haze in his head.  “Shit,” he moaned.  “Shit, shit, shit…  JARVIS?”

“I am having some difficulty, sir,” the AI responded.  The HUD winked to life, but it was full of digital static.  The EMP had fried _everything._ “The… not rebooting… I cannot–”  JARVIS went quiet, and the suit lost its tentative connection to the Tower’s floundering mainframe.  So much for calling for help.  They were on their own.

That was alright by him right now.  Clenching his teeth in fury, he powered up the palm repulsor cannons and let loose.  A long swipe of the bright energy beam cut down half the thugs on top of Steve in a single swath.  Satisfied by their cries of shock and pain, Tony fired the thrusters in his boots, landed hard enough to crack the floor beside the writhing mess restraining his friend, and grabbed two of the men by the backs of their necks.  He threw them, kicking another, shooting a third.  He could barely see Steve underneath.  He wasn’t moving.  _He wasn’t moving._   Tony was about to yell for Clint, but the archer was already there.  Barton was bleeding from his arm, bleeding bad.   He looked as flushed and out of it as Tony felt, probably due to the dart he was yanking out from between his ribs.  Still, he fought furiously, kicking and punching and doing anything to get down to Steve.  “Get the hell off of him!” Clint roared.  Needles smashed against the floor, needles full of clear liquid that spread like thick, viscous water.  “Leave him alone!”

Steve actually screamed when a few of the thugs hit him hard with their stun batons.  There was a boot across his neck, two guys on each of his arms, and more holding his legs.  Even that…  It shouldn’t have been enough to keep him down.  Someone was flat across him, fumbling to hold him still as he practically convulsed.  _Something’s not right!_   “Stark, behind you!” Clint yelled, grappling with another assailant.

Tony whirled, shooting at another wave of soldiers swinging in through the open windows.  He could hear the chopper rotors cutting through the air, but they were slowing.  The damn thing was landing, probably on the roof.  Steve choking made him whirl again, and he thundered closer.  He wasn’t quite fast enough to stop one of the bastards from stabbing him in the chest with another of those needles.  Steve had been injected so many times that he was bleeding all over, like he’d literally been attacked by a swarm of insects, each with its stinger, each poking and hurting.  _Enough!_   “Get off of him,” he snapped, grabbing the arm of the guy straddling Steve’s waist and pitching him clear across the room.  He hit the wall with a crunch and slumped.  “Off now!” he snarled, unleashing everything he had.  A veritable arsenal of missiles and explosives flew from his shoulder and knee compartments.  Even without JARVIS to aid in targeting, he managed to bring down the rest of their enemies.

Clint was quick, getting a hold of Steve by his shirt and hauling him up and away from the fight.  Tony guarded their escape, firing down the hallway where more men were _still_ coming.  It was a goddamn army, it seemed, a goddamn army sent to incapacitate Captain America, and he was losing the rest of his patience (and composure).  “Tony!” Clint yelled frantically.  Steve had collapsed again and was sprawled on the floor, bloodied and bruised, and Clint was panicked and hovering over him.  “Stark, he’s not waking up!  Steve!  Steve!  _Cap!”_

“Get him out of here!” Tony yelled.  Clint tried.  He was begging Steve to move, pulling him to his feet, struggling fiercely with Steve’s weight because Steve ( _oh, God, Steve_ ) wasn’t doing anything to hold himself up.  _What the hell what the hell what the hell_ –  “Come on!”

Going down the elevator or stairs didn’t seem to be an option right then, so Tony blasted the area one last time to cover them and then shot backward.  He didn’t bother with helping Clint, wrapping a strong arm around the both of the other two men and jetting down the corridor.  There were another set of stairs on the northwest side of the building.  Or they could fly out the windows the assholes had broken to get in.  Fly out and _get to safety._

That wasn’t going to happen.

There was a second deep vibration, another grotesque pop that rattled Tony’s bones anew.  Another EMP.  Iron Man went down like lead falling from the sky.  It was only a few feet, but it _hurt_ , and he barely managed to twist in time so that Steve and Clint weren’t crushed.  Even still Clint cried out as they smashed into the floor and the side of the hallway, going straight through the drywall with a spray of dust and debris and ending up in the adjacent room.  This one spanned two floors, wide and open, and they tumbled down.  Everything spun nauseatingly for what felt like forever as they fell.  They hit hard on the carpet below, Tony on his back with Steve and Clint gathered in his arms.  All he could manage was laying there and once again trying not to puke.  He couldn’t see a damn thing.  Maybe that was for the best.  “Ow.”

Clint clambered off of him.  “Stark!”

That jolted him from his daze.  Tony reached up and ripped his faceplate off.  There were huge windows behind them, letting in the meager light of the night, and that was something, at least.  Clint was right next to him, bleeding and haggard.  And Steve was practically unconscious in his arms.  “Jesus,” he whispered.  There was no time for this.  They probably only had a moment or two to even attempt to escape.  Their attackers were here for a very bad reason, whatever it was.  And whatever it was, it had to do with Steve.  Steve who was shivering and pale.  Steve who was wheezing like he was having some sort of asthma attack.  “Steve?  Come on, Cap!”

There was thundering above them.  Around them.  Boots pounding on the floor and men shouting.  “Shit,” Clint whispered.  “We need to get out of here.”

“No, really,” Tony snidely returned, pushing Rogers gently off and to the side.  “Got any ideas with Captain Dead Weight?”

Clint shook his head, reaching for Steve’s pulse.  He looked ill and worried.  “What did they do to him?”

“Shot him up with something.”  He couldn’t imagine that whatever they’d injected into Rogers could _drop_ him like this.  The serum made him immune to nearly all chemical agents and bioweapons.  The drugs to which Tony and Clint had been exposed would have done _nothing_ to him.  He burned through analgesics and sedatives so quick that there was no chance they could have any effect.  That meant whatever was in those needles was far more serious and alarming.  Something told Tony this attack wasn’t about Hawkeye or Iron Man.  Whoever these bastards were, they were after Captain America.  And probably not to kill him.  “This is bad.”

Steve’s eyes suddenly snapped open, and he rolled weakly onto his stomach.  He choked, panting miserably, gagging although nothing came up.  “Easy, Steve!” Clint hushed, immediately taking the larger man by the shoulders both to steady him and provide some comfort.  It was so damn dark again that it was nearly impossible to see, but Steve coughed again and something dribbled from his mouth.  Blood.  “Easy!  We’ve got you!”

When the paroxysm ended, Steve groaned in defeat, curling on himself.  He was shaking so badly he almost seemed trapped in a seizure or the like.  His skin was _dripping_ with sweat.  He looked like…  He looked like he was _dying._   “Oh, God,” he whimpered.  Through all the tough scrapes they’d been in together, Tony had never heard Steve sound like that.  In so much pain and admitting it.  _Succumbing_ to it.  That was not Steve Rogers, who was brave and bold in even the direst of circumstances.  Who never let himself fall, never bled on anyone else, never surrendered, neither to foe or fate.  _Something was unbelievably wrong._   “It hurts…”

“What hurts?” Tony asked desperately.  The stampede of their enemies was getting closer.  “What hurts?”

The soldier gasped, eyes squeezed shut but tears still streaming from them.  “Every… eh-everythin’.  I feel…”  He didn’t finish, quaking so hard that both Clint and Tony were holding him to try and get him to stop.  “I feel wrong.”

“No shit,” Tony muttered, his heart twisting in terror, his gut tied up in dread.

“We need to get him out of here!” Clint gasped.

“Doubly no shit!”  Whatever they were planning to do, they needed to do it.  _Now._   Wordlessly, Tony and Clint scrambled to their feet.  Iron Man was heavy, difficult to articulate, and fairly ungainly without power, but he could still function enough in it.  “Come on, Cap,” he demanded, trying to ignore how bad he felt.  It had to be the drugs.  Thankfully whatever Clint and he had been injected with _hadn’t_ dropped them yet.  There was still a chance they could escape.  “Come on!”

Steve was practically doubled over, but he still tried to push himself to his feet.  His face was oddly gaunt in the meager light, his eyes bright and nearly feverish.  Tony draped one arm over his neck, and Clint took his other.  Together they headed to one of the doors on the lower floor.

They didn’t make it more than a step.

Another concussive grenade was tossed inside from the shadows beyond.  It was nearly impossible to see it, but they could hear it, thudding against the carpet and rolling closer.  Tony’s warning died in his throat as it detonated right under a conference table.  The table thankfully absorbed most of the explosion, but the heavy oak structure was flung up and across the room.  It rammed right into them.

Clint went down with a wail.  Tony was barely able to hang onto Steve when half of his support just disappeared.  It was difficult to see what was happening, but when his ears stopped ringing, he forced himself to focus.  “Clint!”

Clint was pinned under the table.  Thankfully the wall had taken the worst of the blow, so he wasn’t badly hurt.  However, his ankle was trapped, wedged under the side of the table where it was against the wall.  “Damn it,” he gasped with a grimace.  “I’m stuck!”

With Iron Man without any power, Tony was fairly helpless to do anything.  That meant it was up to Steve, Steve who was practically passed out at his side.   _Get him awake so he can move this!_ “Steve, come on!  Get this thing off of him!”  The men were coming.  Tony whirled around in panic at the booming racket, heart pounding frantically and terror strong upon him.  There was no time!  He shook Steve roughly.  “Come on, Rogers!  Wake up!  Get it off him _now!_ ”

Somehow the jostling and shouting was enough.  Steve forced his eyes open, and he pulled away from Tony, staggering to the table.  His big hands grasped its edge.  They shook, but his fingers curled around it, and he pulled.

_Nothing._

Tony’s eyes went wide.  He’d seen Steve complete feats of utter impossibility.  He wasn’t as strong as Thor or as the Hulk, but he was still far, far stronger than a normal man, strong enough to bend steel and break concrete and lift cars.  Strong enough to climb out of that silo as busted up and broken as he had been.  _Strong._

And he couldn’t lift that table.  Granted, it was a heavy table, but he should have been able to fling it to the side _one-handed_ without _even_ _trying._   He went at it again, using both hands this time and exerting himself hard, lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl of effort, very clearly giving it his all.  And he couldn’t so much as budge it.  He gasped something that sounded miserably like an actual sob, collapsing into the wood.  “I can’t do it,” he moaned.  “I can’t.”

“Oh, God,” Tony whispered.  This was bad.  This was really bad.  They’d done something to Steve.  Whatever was in those needles had suppressed the serum or interfered with his powers or _something_ because he was sick and as weak as a kitten and they were in some seriously _serious_ trouble.  There was no time to spare on his horror, though.  He sucked in a deep breath, fighting to focus and think.  He pressed the emergency release for his suit, uncertain that he could deal with its added baggage at the moment, and stepped out of it before rushing to Steve’s side.  “Ready?  We’ll do it together.  Clint, push up.  On three.  One.  Two.  Three!”

Together, Tony and Steve pulled.  Clint pushed from below.  Tony instantly knew he and Clint were doing almost all of it, and that was newly terrifying, but he shoved that down as they lifted the table off of Clint.  The archer scrambled out from under it.  Even in the darkness, Tony could see he was one breath from panic.  But all he did was grab Steve, grab him and hold him tight, and Steve practically withered into his embrace.  “We need to get him out of here,” was all Clint said.

Unfortunately, though, escape wasn’t happening.

These few long seconds had been costly.  The room filled with soldiers, way more than they could fight off the way they were.  Guns were raised, the black forms racing toward them like spiders, and before any of them could ever surrender, that distinctive ping of tranquilizer darts being fired reverberated.  There was nowhere to go, no way to hide, at least not as fast as they needed to.  Tony grimaced, a couple of darts digging into his leg.  One bit into his neck.  He crumpled almost instantly, that godawful rush of ugly warmth smothering his nerves and reducing his muscles to jelly.  Vaguely he saw that Clint was falling, too, limp and helpless.  _No._   It took a lot of effort to focus on anything, particularly with the even deeper shadows of unconsciousness encroaching on his vision.  But he focused.  _No._   Through the wall of soldiers, another man appeared.  _Oh, no_.

This man came right over.  Tony couldn’t see him clearly, and he couldn’t move.  Fighting to stay awake was a losing battle, and he managed it just long enough to see the man’s heavy shadow loom over him.  Over Steve.  “Well, well, Captain…  How the mighty have fallen.”

The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was Steve screaming.


	3. Chapter 3

“Tony?  Tony, can you hear me?”

 _Don’t wake up._   If only that was possible.  He could stay down here, down in the darkness.  There was no pain down here.  No fear.  No nothing.  The horrifying yet undeniable fact that _somehow_ they’d ended up back in the hands of their enemies…  Well, that couldn’t touch him here.  It was quiet, peaceful.  A void.  If only it could stay that way.

“Tony, come on.  We need you.”

Things rarely worked out the way he wanted them to.

With great effort and much chagrin, Tony opened his eyes.  There was a blurry, concerned face leaning over him.  Unlike the last time he’d woken up like this, however, that face was thinner, gaunt, and so incredibly pale.  The blue eyes were the same, though, save for the fact that now they were steeped in fear and uncertainty.  The voice was the same, too.  And, unfortunately, the bruises.  “Tony?”

Steve.  Any hope he’d had that what he’d remembered wasn’t true was blown away.  _Oh, hell._   Tony jolted completely awake, despite the hammer intent on splitting his skull open, and sat up.  “Steve?”  Steve leaned back, his face sliding into a dismayed frown.  Tony winced, not believing what he was seeing.  The man before him looked nothing like Captain America.  Bony collarbones and shoulders poked through what was clearly Clint’s flannel, outer shirt.  He had no pants on, revealing scraped, knobby knees and narrow hips.  His skin, where it wasn’t mottled by bruising, was so white, so fair, translucent almost with blue trails of veins dark beneath it.  He was small and thin.  A hollowed out face and sunken eyes.  Tony would have thought this was some sort of sick joke, but it couldn’t be.  He’d seen what Steve had looked like before the serum, the old black and white photographs of Private Rogers at Camp Lehigh while training for the super soldier program.  Ninety pounds, barely five feet tall, troubled by asthma and a bad heart murmur and chronic lung and ear infections and scoliosis…  He knew this was real, no matter how much his heart tried to deny.  “Jesus, Steve.”

Steve swallowed, the muscles of his throat shifting as he did, and he scooted away from Tony.  He didn’t say anything.  He didn’t have to.  He just pulled his knees up to his chest, Clint’s shirt draping down his slight frame like a smock.  Clint’s shirt in which he was positively drowning.  Clint’s shirt which would have burst at the seams around his muscles a few hours ago.  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, dropping his forehead to his knees.

Clint was there right next to him, watching him with intense eyes.  “What the hell reason do you have to be sorry?” he demanded, probably more tersely than he intended.  Steve, the rock of ages of their team, the one to which all of them always looked for guidance, strength, and moral fortitude, _flinched._   Clint glanced at Tony.  He was pale, too, and his eyes held a silent plea that something be done to make this not real.  He sighed and moved just a bit closer to Steve, even though every line of Steve’s slender frame was screaming _stay back._   “It’s not your fault.”

Steve shuddered through a breath but offered nothing further.  It was silent a moment before Tony grimaced, forcing himself to sit up all the way even though his midsection seriously protested it.  “How long was I out?” he asked.  “Hours?  Days?”

“More like twenty minutes,” Clint returned grimly.  “You didn’t miss much.”

“No rescue attempt then?”

“No.”

“Bummer.”  Tony wanted to puke.  He gritted his teeth against that as he scooted himself gingerly to Steve’s other side.  He braced his back against the cold wall, licking his lips (which tasted like blood) and carefully feeling his right temple where a sizeable welt was tenderly pulsing in time with his heartbeat.  At least his skull was mostly intact.  Dropping his hand, he squeezed his eyes shut against the renewed vertigo and rode through the waves of pain.  At least he could remember what had happened now.  The effects of whatever drug with which they’d been injected must have been wearing off.  Of course, remembering wasn’t exactly a comfort.  He ground his teeth together in frustration.  He didn’t know how the hell Zemo had hacked into his system, how he’d hacked JARVIS, but when they got out of here, he was going to make damn sure it never happened again.  _If we get out of here._

Luck rarely favored the twice foolish.  Not that they’d been foolish.  Luck rarely favored the ill-prepared?  That seemed more appropriate, now that he thought about it.  He looked over at Steve, whose eyes were clenched shut and whose forehead was still braced on his knees.  It had gotten so quiet again that the shallow pace of his breathing was thunderous.  Tony sighed just to ease the tension.  “Well, I guess I stand corrected.  You were right to want to get ready, Cap.  Super soldier senses tingling?”

Steve still said nothing.  Clint caught Tony’s gaze, and he gave a small shake of his head.  Why?  To what point and purpose should they pretend nothing was wrong?  The eight hundred pound gorilla in the room was a ninety pound young man, tucked right between them.  Steve was breathing in little, hitched wheezes.  Tony had never heard him breathe like that before.  Struggling for air, but not because he’d been hurt.  It was because his lungs weren’t working well.  It was because he had asthma and a host of other physical maladies.  His chest seemed to rattle every time he inhaled, bones vibrating under the fabric of Barton’s shirt.  Tony couldn’t believe it, couldn’t get used to it.  It wasn’t right to stare, but damn if he couldn’t stop himself from doing just that.  And damn if he couldn’t stop himself from asking.  “How’d they do it?”

Steve finally lifted his head.  Tony could actually _see_ him try to pull himself together.  Steve’s hands had always been more fine-boned than thick, an artist’s hands despite their strong tendons and sinewy cords, but now they seemed frail and delicate.  His knuckles were knobs of reddened skin, split and raw from the fight, seemingly bulging on the along the sticks of his fingers.  He worked those fingers together almost nervously, staring at them like he was caught in a dream of some sort.  Or a memory.  Recognizing them but not at the same time.  “Does…”  He swallowed, and those muscles worked again.  Even that seemed off, and Tony knew why.  It was so noticeable.  There was hardly a spare ounce of fat on Steve’s body.  “Does it matter?”

That pissed Tony off something fierce.  “Yes, it matters.  Of course it does.  This isn’t permanent!”  God Almighty, Steve flinched again.  He almost seemed like he was in shock.  Tony supposed he was.  He’d been Captain America, in that huge body blessed with seemingly endless resilience, energy, strength, and vitality, for years.  It had to be a hell of a jolt, physical and emotional, to be back the way he was before the serum.  Without the serum.  “They couldn’t have taken it away, Steve.  They couldn’t have.”  He heard the desperation in his own voice and tried to tame it, particularly when Steve’s eyes sharply settled on him.  “The serum’s in your DNA, Steve.  They couldn’t have _taken_ it.  It’s goddamn impossible.”

It wasn’t all a lie.  The super soldier serum was a part of Steve.  The highly experimental procedure that had transformed him from what they now saw before them to the world’s one and only super soldier had fused the serum into his genetic code.  It had combined itself with him on a molecular level.  There was no way to extract it, no way to replicate it.  People had been trying for seventy years to reproduce Doctor Erskine’s work, all to no avail.  Even Bruce, the world’s foremost expert on the serum and a hell of a genius concerning pretty much everything _everywhere,_ thought it was unlikely anyone would ever successfully fully recreate the serum, at least not with current medical technology and scientific theories.  So there was _no way_ these bastards could have managed it.  They weren’t that smart.  It just wasn’t possible.  Tony let a long breath out, shaking his head, making himself _sure_ of that.  “It’s fixable.  So tell us what they did so we can find a way to fix it.”

Steve stared at him, and it was more than obvious he was searching for hope.  Tony’s mind went right back to that silo, to how strong Steve had been, how _sure_ he’d been that they could not only survive but escape.  Both Tony and Clint (but Tony even more so) had lost faith down in that rusty hell, but Steve had never allowed any of them to fall.  So now it was Tony’s turn to return the favor.  “It’s going to be alright,” he said with a nod.

Swallowing yet again, Steve turned back to his hands.  He heaved a sigh, wincing, though whether in pain from his injuries or his memories, Tony couldn’t say.  It was probably both.  “I don’t…  I don’t remember much.  I was drifting in and out.  The first thing I know clearly is I woke up here, chained up in one of the rooms.  Zemo’s thugs…  They had their fun for a while.”  Tony felt something inside him tighten again, a knot of rage inside his chest.  He looked over Steve’s head (he’d never used to be able to do that) to meet Clint’s eyes.  The archer was as dark and malignant as he felt.  _Bastards._   “I knew in the Tower that somethin’ wasn’t right with me, but that’s when I… when I realized something was going on with the serum.  When they hit me… it _hurt_ more.”

Tony tried not to picture it, those cruel assholes kicking the crap out of Steve with the serum failing him all the while, his thick skin and strong muscles and bones as hard as steel that used to absorb damage and mitigate suffering disappearing…  He hadn’t thought to ask before.  “Are you badly hurt?”

Steve shook his head.  “Nothing I can’t handle.  Been beat up lots of times.”  Backstreet brawls.  Alleyway fights.  Bullies and thugs, teaching little Steve Rogers to get out of their way or, better yet, _stay down in the dirt_ every time they got rude or rowdy.  Tony knew the stories, the legend of Captain America taking on the scourge of Brooklyn in the 1930s and 40s, protecting the smaller kids and the weaker folk with nothing but his huge heart for a shield, his sense of right as a sword, and his faith in the goodness of people as a cause.  Not much had changed even in this day and age.  Steve was still standing up to the bullies, _really_ big bullies, only now he had vibranium and an indestructible body as a shield, immeasurable strength and endurance as a sword, and his _still_ unerring faith in this world as his cause.  “They got tired of that after a while.  Not sure how long.  I think I must have blacked out for a bit because I woke up strapped to a table in a lab with Zemo’s doctors draining the blood out of my body.”  Now he sniffled slightly, rubbing a bruised, shaking hand down his face.  “I…  I felt so weak.  Could hardly move.  Thought I saw…  It’s crazy.  Thought I saw an octopus.  Arms.”  Clint glanced worriedly at Tony, but Tony had nothing to say.  Steve shook his head.  “Zemo was there, telling me he was taking what rightfully belonged to HYDRA.  I didn’t understand that.  I just kept thinking that there were only straps holding me down.  Not even metal ones.  I should be able to break them.  Should be able to.”  His eyes glazed a moment with that, glazed with _tears_ , and suddenly it was sadly obvious just how much pain he was in.  He shivered with it.  “Next thing I remember clearly, they’re dragging me in here.”  Dragging him and tossing him like garbage.

Tony fought to keep control of his temper.  “They filtered your blood somehow.”  Steve nodded.  “They inject you with anything else?”

“Probably.  I wasn’t exactly aware enough to notice.”

Clint’s face grew lax with thought.  “Doesn’t your body produce its own supply of the serum?”

Steve nodded, but it was Tony who went on.  “Yeah, it does.  The genes that Project: Rebirth added to your DNA cause you to continually replenish the serum in your blood and tissues.  You’re practically swimming in it.”  He was already running with this.  Granted, he wasn’t as smart as Bruce when it came to stuff like this, but he was no slouch, either.  “Even if they found a way to filter the serum out of your blood, then all the genes that _make_ the serum are probably just fine.  They just sucked you dry and you need to recharge.”

That sounded like complete bullshit.  Even if it wasn’t, there was absolutely no way he could know.  He realized it the second it was out of his mouth, but two pairs of wistful eyes, just _yearning_ for some shred of hope, were staring at him intently.  “Is… is that possible?” Clint asked.

Honestly, he had no idea.  He wouldn’t be able even to hazard a guess without seeing the data, lab notes and reports and the like (assuming these HYDRA scientists did that sort of thing, taking notes and recording data).  Getting specific information wasn’t likely to happen with them trapped in this cell with only a glass wall and floor separating them from the crushing depths of the ocean.  Still, he supposed it could be true.  And with Clint and Steve looking to him for answers…  “Sure.  They can’t get rid of the serum.”  Steve shivered through another breath, his eyes betraying just how much he wanted to believe that.  Tony boldly went on, not caring one bit if he was repeating himself.  Steve needed to hear it.  “It’s in your DNA.  They _can’t_ take that.  Maybe they found a way to harvest it or temporarily shut it off, but it’s not permanent.”

“Seems to be so far,” Steve said quietly and ruefully, almost to himself.  His eyes glazed, and he curled over his knees again.

If that was a joke, Tony didn’t get it.  “We’ll find a way to make it right.  Hell, it could fix itself for all we know.  You could just grow back like a starfish or something.  Starfish grow back, don’t they, when they lose limbs and things?”

“Not a good metaphor,” Clint weakly chided with a wince.

“Point is: _it’s not permanent_.  You’ll get all muscly and huge again.”  He meant that to sound light-hearted, but all it did was bring what Steve looked like now into sharp contrast with what he had been.  “Don’t give up just yet, Cap.”

A soft grunt answered.  “Not givin’ up,” came a throaty reply.  “Not like I’ve never been this way before.”  That didn’t sound like Steve.  The words were right, maybe, but the tone wasn’t.  The tone was more brittle, more worn thin and despairing, than Tony had ever heard Steve be.  “And I’m not Cap right now.”  He shivered with another sigh and visibly forced himself to add, “Not right now.”

 _Jesus._ Again Tony shared a look with Clint, helpless and hurting and hating Zemo and HYDRA for all the awful shit they’d done to Steve over the years.  This was the worst, and that was saying something.  The need to get free, to fix this and make these bastards pay for reducing Steve to quivering and grieving, was so strong that he could barely sit still.

Clint was a tad more resourceful and a little bolder to boot.  He snaked an arm right around Steve’s bony shoulders like _nothing_ was different, just like he had hundreds of times in the past only it had been harder then because Steve had been broader and taller.  Now the archer was tucking him close like a little brother.  “It’s gonna be okay.  We got you, huh?  We’ll fix it.”

A bold promise to go with that bold move.  Tony didn’t care if it didn’t seem like there was any way to make it better.  They’d _find_ one.  They were the Avengers.  Doing the impossible was what they did.  And Steve was their captain, no matter how small or weak he might have been right then.  They’d save him, find a way to restore the serum because it was still inside him _somewhere._   They’d get him back to normal.  He didn’t let himself think anything else.  “Clint’s right.  These assholes aren’t smarter than Bruce, and they’re sure as hell not smarter than me.”

“They hacked the Tower,” Steve muttered.

“Doesn’t matter.  We escaped Zemo once.  We can do it again.”

Steve didn’t look convinced, shivering worse despite Clint’s nearness.  He dipped his head around a trembling sigh.  It _hurt_ to see him like this, and not just because he was small and frail.  Because he was _defeated._   Their experience in the silo had gone a long ways to easing Tony’s discomfort with physical closeness, so it didn’t take much now to make himself scooch even closer to Steve.  He wrapped an arm around Steve’s middle, trying _not_ to feel the jutting of ribs beneath Clint’s shirt, and hugged him as much as he could.  Steve seemed like he needed the warmth, the strength, the physical contact, and Tony could provide that at least.

The three of them sat in silence for a while, reeling with it all.  The black depths of the ocean stretched below and before them, endless and disorienting.  Ahead in the glass, with the light shining brightly down on them, their reflections eerily stared back.  Clint’s and Tony’s did, at least.  Steve was still curled up, head hanging down beneath his bony arms, hiding from the truth.

Tony sighed.  “Anybody else think this is creepy?”

“What, the fact that we’re trapped on the bottom of the ocean but somehow we’re basically in the same spot we were six months ago?” Clint asked tensely.  “At least I can see this time.”

Tony grunted, not particularly wanting to be reminded of how bad things had been down in the silo.  “Not that there’s much _to_ see.  It’s so damn dark and depressing.”  He looked down beneath them, and it was disconcerting, the fact that it seemed like they were sitting on inky _nothingness._   He could see his own face again, and this close the bruises and cuts were so much more noticeable.  He turned away.  “It’s kinda like how much more black can it be out there?  And the answer is none.  None more black.”  Clint gave Tony a wan look.  Even Steve glanced up at him.  “What?  _This Is Spinal Tap_?  Don’t tell me you’ve never seen _This Is Spinal Tap._   It’s a cult classic.  Here I thought after six months of movie nights, you’d be better prepared for my awesome references and puns this go around, but clearly I was mistaken.  At least Steve has a reason, being behind the times and all.  What’s your excuse, Barton?” 

“I have a life,” Clint returned.  Then he gently nudged Steve.  “You said waking up in the other room was the first thing that was clear, so were you awake when they brought us down?”

Steve seemed to struggle with his emotions for a beat.  “I don’t know.  I can kinda remember some things, but nothing makes sense.  They brought us down on some kind of…”  He winced, like it hurt to think.  “…submarine type thing?  And we were somewhere else first.  A ship.  No, wait.  A rig, I think.  Like an oil rig.”

“God, Zemo really is like a bad Bond villain,” Tony muttered.  “Super-secret, evil research facility at the bottom of the ocean, hooked to an oil rig up top.  Let me know if there’s a skull island with a volcano lair on the horizon.”

Clint shook his head.  “What makes you think they’re hooked together?”

“No,” Steve said, lifting his head further.  “No, Tony’s right.”  His eyes glazed with thought.  “It wasn’t a sub.  It was…  This is going to sound crazy, but it was some kind of elevator.  There’s a tether.  They kept calling it an umbilical.”  He was perking up more and more with the prospect of doing something useful, even if it was only vaguely recalling their abduction.  “That’s how they’re going up and down.  The elevator runs along it.”

“How much you want to bet that’s what’s serving this place with power, too,” Tony said, “or at least fuel.  But it would probably be safer to send electricity down rather than gas or anything else.”

“And we can’t have been here too long,” Steve added.  “When they were… _draining_ me, I kept passing out, but I’m pretty sure the guards who tied me down were the same ones who brought me here.”

“Same shift?” Clint asked.  Steve nodded.  “Not necessarily.  Could be a day later.  Or more.”

Steve shook his head emphatically.  “No.  I clocked one of ’em right in the jaw when they were…”  He shivered a little.  “Kicking the tar out of me.  He was still all busted up.”

Now that Steve mentioned it, Tony recalled that guy, a huge, _fresh_ , red and purple bruise discoloring the side of his face.  Impressed, he nodded approvingly at his friend.  “Guess your brain was as sharp as all that before the serum, huh.”

Steve actually flushed with the compliment.  He came back sassy, though, as he always did with Tony.  “Don’t know why you’re so surprised.  There _was_ a reason they picked me for Project: Rebirth.”  Hearing him be snarky, even if it was weak and half-hearted, was such a relief.  The corner of his bruised lips picked up in a smile, and he tapped a forefinger to his temple.  “Always had a mind for details.”

Clint cocked his head slightly.  “Well, that means we haven’t been here for more than a few hours.  Stark, how long would it take JARVIS to reboot the Tower completely?”

“Assuming they didn’t fry anything too important or damage the computer core?”

“Assuming.”

“Minutes.”

“So the others might already know we’re missing,” Clint surmised.  “JARVIS would’ve called Fury.”

“Yes, he would’ve.  Hell, he might have called for help when the Tower was trying to come back online before they took us.  There’s no way to tell.  Trust me when I say I programmed him to be a lot smarter than just turning back on and ignoring the huge ass mess in the common room and the fact that all three of us are missing.”  He gave Steve a wry grin.  “He also has a mind for details.”

Steve managed a grin of his own.  “Then we just need to hang on until someone comes for us.”  He sounded more like himself, even if the words were spoken with a shadow of his normal confidence and faith.  “Until they get us out of here.”

That didn’t sit as well as Tony would have liked.  He knew why, of course.  _We just need to hang on._   For what?  Why?  _Why_ had Zemo kept them alive when he’d already sucked Steve dry of the serum and reduced him to this?  If he’d wanted revenge, well, he’d already gotten it, the son of a bitch.  Or was there more to it than that?  Could HYDRA make this _worse_ somehow?  Trapped down in this icy, black abyss with the frail husk of Captain America shivering between them?  _It can always get worse._ He’d learned that lesson well from their last adventure.

And then there was the other unspoken facet of what Steve had said.  _Until someone comes for us._   Implying that they needed to be rescued.  Therefore implying that _they_ couldn’t save themselves.  Therefore implying that _Steve_ couldn’t save them or even try.  That was just about as distressing.  Throughout the whole hell of their last misadventure, Steve had never doubted his ability to climb, to fight, to get out.  He’d never lost faith in their capacity to _survive._   Not so now.  Tony was speaking before he thought better of it, because, again, the mere hint of Steve _defeated_ or Steve _giving up_ was way too damn much.  “Or how about we sit here until _you_ reboot and teach these bastards a lesson?  How’s that sound?”  Steve’s eyes were doubtful and irritated.  They seemed bigger, more piercing and darker blue, and Tony realized why.  His face was smaller and paler.  The expression was the same, though.  That patented look of Captain America’s disapproval.  “What?  Don’t be so pissed off, Rogers, or such a downer.  I said it before.  Maybe it’ll happen.”

“Stop acting like it’ll be so simple.”

“Maybe it will be.”

Steve honest to God glared at him.  Tony wouldn’t say it, but he was relieved if for no other reason than seeing the fire in Steve’s eyes.  _Be angry.  That’s better than surrendering._   It was no secret that he and Steve didn’t always see eye to eye, even in calm, unemotional situations (and this was about as far from that as possible).  Their personalities were something of polar opposites.  Tony was loud, flashy, extravagant, and impulsive.  And cynical ( _let’s not forget that_ ).  Steve tended to be quieter, simpler, more serious, no-nonsense and moral.  Optimistic.  Tony had been borne into wealth, into power and prestige, into a bright future.  Things had always come easily to him.  Steve had been poor, sick, destitute with hardly any future ahead of him at all, and he’d struggled from childhood until he’d gotten the serum.  It had taken a lot given their rough, inauspicious beginnings aboard the helicarrier before Loki’s invasion but they’d found their footing with each other, made their peace with one another and their respective demons.  They’d forged a strong friendship, and their experience in the silo had only strengthened it.

They still rubbed each other the wrong way sometimes, though, bickering like an old married couple.  This was going to be one of those times.  And Clint, who was a pragmatist, a cool customer, a level-headed guy who always served to cut through the bullshit, had seen this _many_ times before, so predictably he opted for the higher road.  He stood, cutting off the argument before it even got started, and crossed the cell to the glass wall.  “So bottom line is we need to get up this umbilical thing.”

Tony nodded, pulling his arm away from Steve.  “Well, I don’t think we can swim up,” he commented, like anyone actually thought that was an option.  “At this depth, the water’s frigid, but freezing to death would probably be a blessing.”  Then he realized how thoughtless that was.  “Sorry.”  He glanced at Rogers, wincing, but Steve said nothing.  “Anyway, the water pressure would crush you long before hypothermia set in.  Basically if that glass wall were to spontaneously disappear, we’d be dead in seconds, and it wouldn’t be pleasant or pretty.”

“Lovely,” Clint commented.  He peered outside.  “Wonder what other stuff they have down here?”  Steve and Tony shared a dismayed look.  Clint turned to glance at them over his shoulder.  “You think they built this place just to keep us prisoner?  Flattering, but I doubt it.”

Tony’s brain suddenly spun with all sorts of grotesque nightmares.  Mutated monsters.  Demons.  Aliens.  Science experiments gone unfathomably wrong.  Creatures too horrific to ever see the light of day.  Every type of grotesque abomination that one could possibly imagine housed in the secret science laboratory of the criminally deranged.  “Like some sort of sci-fi hell,” he grumbled, wishing his stomach didn’t feel like a pit of nausea inside him.

Clint shook his head.  “Think I’d prefer a rusted out missile silo.”

Tony forced himself free of the images in his head.  “So we get out.  Use the umbilical.  Or find a submersible of some sort.  Guarantee you this place has some, unless HYDRA is not into safety or common sense.  There’s no way they’d rely on one elevator in an emergency.”

Barton grunted, going back to staring into the nothingness and folding his arms across his chest in grimly.  “I wouldn’t count on them caring.  HYDRA treats their goons like a bunch of red shirts.”

Tony turned to Steve, watching him expectantly.  Steve said nothing, did nothing.  The inventor gave an exaggerated sigh.  “Oh, come on, Rogers.  I know you got that reference.  We’ve watched _Star Trek._ ”

Steve didn’t rise to the bait.  “Don’t know how much use I’ll be in a fight,” he commented emptily.  He sighed slowly, heavily, the narrow spread of his shoulders falling with it.  “Assuming we have a chance to fight.”

Clint turned back, dropping his arms.  He clenched his jaw and shared another look with Tony, one that was teeming with frustration.  He wasn’t doing anything to hide it.  “Cap–”

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the door slamming open.  The sudden racket of it made Tony’s aching head pulse anew in misery, and he grimaced, turning sharply to face the entrance.  It was irrational and stupid, but he prayed for it to be anyone else other than who he’d knew it’d be.  Sure enough, a slew HYDRA thugs dressed in their black uniforms trimmed in blood red ( _Clint’s right – they’re red shirts_ ) stood there, rifles at the ready and pointed at the Avengers.  Tony swallowed his thrumming heart, forcing himself to stand despite the litany of throbbing bruises all over his body.  “Can we help you guys with something?  Because it’s kinda rude to barge in like this.  We might have been discussing something important, like how we’re going to kick your asses and get the hell out of here.”

Zemo emerged from the back of the pack again.  Tony couldn’t get used to how he looked.  Talk about a nightmare with those scarred eyes and the purple veil over his face.  It was a cross between horrific and comical and not in a good way.  “I’ll see that you abandon your wit, Mr. Stark.  You’ll beg for mercy.”

Tony couldn’t help himself.  “Doubt it.”

“Do you?” Zemo asked smugly.  He turned to his men.  “Take the Captain.”

A long, awful moment passed before Tony realized what that meant.  Clint reached the inevitable conclusion faster, and he was charging back across the room, standing in front of Steve protectively.  “Get the hell away from him!” he bellowed, his furious voice echoing.  He pulled Steve to his feet like it was nothing (because it _was_ nothing – Steve was small and frail and completely incapable of withstanding whatever tortures Zemo had in store for him) and shoved him behind him.  He backed the other man up to the far wall, Steve stumbling over his feet as though moving in his new ( _old_ ) body was too disconcerting to be graceful.  “Stay back!  You hear me?  Stay back!  You’re not touching him!”

That was a fairly inadequate deterrent.  The soldiers came right at them.  Clint punched the first one who got too close, but before Tony could even leap to his aid, they simply overran him.  He was belted across the face, his legs kicked out from under him, and the men not busy restraining him went right for Steve.  Tony couldn’t see much of the struggle because his own arms had been seized and a fist found its way into his sore midsection again.  With the air knocked right out of him, he was limp and useless as Zemo’s men dragged the three Avengers before their leader.  They held Clint and Tony back a bit as they cruelly shoved Steve down to his knees right in front of Zemo.  Steve gasped, falling hard, fresh blood covering his lips.  He looked up, _way_ up, at Zemo, his teeth gritted and his eyes full of fury.  Tony shook himself free of the pain and dizziness, squirming against the holds on his arms and shoulders.  At least, he did until he felt a gun jab into his temple.  Then he went still and prayed there was a way to survive whatever was coming.  _This is worse._

It was odd, how easy it was to tell Zemo was smiling behind his veil.  “How does it feel, Captain, to be on your knees before the might of HYDRA?  Worse than that, to be back to where you started?  To be reduced to what you always were?  Weak.  Pathetic.  _Nothing._ ”

“Let them go,” Steve hoarsely ordered.  Even like this, he was so goddamn _noble._ Tony wanted to scream.  _Shut up, Steve._ “It’s me you want.  You’ve got me.  Let Stark and Barton go.”

Zemo gave an amused grunt.  “And let them miss out on this, my moment of triumph?  I think not.”  Steve tried to pull away, tried to break holds that would have been easily defeated before, but he couldn’t.  It was all ineffective wriggling, and the men guarding him laughed as they pulled one of his arms forward.  Zemo’s gloved fingers snatched the thin wrist they offered to him.  “Besides, like my father, I have great interest in science.  I am in the constant pursuit of erudition.  There is much we can yet learn from you.  For instance, your bones were nigh unbreakable before.  How brittle are they now?”  A grimace twisted up Steve’s face as Zemo squeezed, leather creaking while his fingers tightened around Steve’s arm.  “How much pressure do I need to snap one like a twig?”

“Leave him alone!” Clint ordered.

“How much, Captain?” Zemo hissed, twisting now as he crushed.  Steve choked down a cry.  Tony could hardly bear to watch.  His own arm throbbed as memories unwittingly dug at his resolve.  “How much?”

Clint was a wildcat to the left, spitting fire.  “Goddamn it, you bastard!  Don’t!  _Don’t!_ ”

It didn’t matter how Barton yelled or if Steve struggled.  Zemo broke his wrist with a crack that resounded through the room, and Steve howled in agony.  “Not much, apparently,” Zemo smugly surmised as he let his victim go.  The baron stepped back, and that grin Tony just knew was plastered all over his hideous face turned arrogant and pleased.  Steve gasped a sob, pulling his damaged arm close to his chest, struggling to breathe and scrabbling to get away.  There was nowhere for him to go.  He had a dozen armed men on him, guns at the ready, and he couldn’t fight.  _He couldn’t fight._

There was the sound of shouting, flesh striking flesh, and Clint ended up prone on his stomach, face pressed into the floor by a boot on the back of his head.  A rifle dug into his neck.  “Do be quiet, Agent Barton,” Zemo ordered.

Tony was lost in disbelief.  As awful as it had been before, the horrific realization that Steve’s life was in serious jeopardy fully sunk its venomous teeth into the muscle of his heart.  He _was_ brittle.  Weak.  Incapable of defending himself, let alone defending anyone else.  _Not Captain America._ “And you, Mr. Stark.  Nothing to say now?” Zemo taunted.  “No witty rejoinder?  No frivolous comment about the strength of Captain America, of your pathetic Avengers?  No?”  Tony swallowed, barely able to breathe, let alone think or speak, with his heart thudding against his sternum and his brain frozen in horror.  Zemo laughed.  “I now possess everything that made Captain America strong.  He was my father’s most formidable opponent, the one who defeated the Red Skull and ended HYDRA’s reign, and look at him.”  Tony didn’t look again, planting his eyes on his thighs.  “Look at him!”

Unwittingly his gaze shot to Steve.  Steve’s eyes were bright with furious tears he was trying to hold back.  He was shaking, wheezing, bleeding.  Small and helpless.  “He’s nothing without _this._ ”  Zemo pulled a vial from the folds of his dark coat.  Inside it a blue liquid glowed ethereally.  It was thick, swirling with shades of sapphire and cerulean, and Tony felt his heart simply stop.  _The super soldier serum._   He’d read his father’s notes on it, seen pictures of it (black and white, but still).  That was the serum that Zemo had stolen from Steve.  The bastard laughed again.  “Your father’s legacy.  All these years, and it’s finally _ours_.  So look at your captain.  Look at what he is before we end him.”

Tony was shaking harder as he turned back to Steve once more.  Cradling his arm to his chest and collapsing into himself, Steve was barely able to shake his head.  He was imploring Tony not do anything to fight or say anything to make this worse.  It was obvious now, why Zemo had kept Iron Man and Hawkeye alive.  HYDRA was finally going to kill Captain America.  It wasn’t even going to be a challenge.  They were going to kill him, and Clint and he were there to _watch._

And they watched as the men hauled Steve onto his feet, as they ripped Clint’s shirt off him to reveal his skinny torso and jutting shoulders.  The men crowded around him like a backstreet brawl.  An alleyway fight.  Tony couldn’t breathe.  Somehow he managed a whisper.  “Please don’t.”

“Oh, so now you beg,” Zemo snarled.  “Please don’t what, Mr. Stark?”

This was humiliating and degrading, but he was willing to do anything to stop them from beating Steve to death.  “Please don’t hurt him.  Please.”

Zemo was unimpressed.  He merely leaned away from Tony and turned to his men, and that was enough of a signal for them to commence.  The first few blows were met with silence.  The bastards held Steve’s arms spread eagle, exposing that tiny, frail chest to the vicious strikes of fists and feet.  Steve stood, seemingly stoic and unwavering, blood dripping down his lip where he was biting it.  For a moment, he seemed like he always did.  Tony didn’t know _how_ he was managing that: standing there and taking it when he couldn’t take _anything_ anymore.  But he did.

For maybe a minute or so.  Then ribs cracked and he screamed.  “Stop!” Tony shouted.  That was enough to jolt him from his stupor, and he struggled wildly.  “Please stop!  _Stop!_ ”

Zemo folded his arms over his chest.  “Not good enough.”  He laughed, the vindictive, showy son of a bitch.  “Grovel.”

 _God._   Tony wrestled away from the men, scrambling over on his knees to Zemo.  This was _wrong_ on so many levels – _I’m going to kill him!_ – but he did it anyway.  He’d do anything.  “Please let Rogers go.  Please don’t kill him.  I’m begging you.  I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Tony,” Steve weakly gasped.  The soldiers didn’t let him go, but they’d stopped hitting him at least.  He looked like their grips on his hair and arms were all that was holding upright.  “Tony, no.”

 _Shut up, Steve!_   It was too late.  Zemo’s head cocked at his men, and they responded to Steve’s plea with a blow to his vulnerable belly.  He doubled over as much as he could, coughing violently.  A couple more hits like that…  “Go on, Mr. Stark.”

“Um…”  Tony fought to think.  “You’re smarter than me, and your old man was smarter than mine.  Death rays and killer glue are great ideas.  I’ll help you however you need.  I’ll do anything.”  He was just babbling to get this to stop, word vomit desperately spilling from his lips.  Even then his brain ran loose of his control and out came nonsense.  “Hail HYDRA.  A million times hail HYDRA.  I’ll kiss your ring.  You got one?”

Zemo lost his patience.  Steve cried out again.  Tony couldn’t see what they were doing to him.  Clint yelled something rough and frantic, and panic made the room spin.  “Say that you should have stayed down.  Iron Man dying in an iron hell.  You should have stayed down!”

What did it matter?  “I should’ve stayed down.  I should’ve stayed down!”

“And tell me Captain America is dead.”  Tony flinched, darting a glance at Clint, who ardently shook his head.  “You’re the son of the man who _made_ him, and you’re his friend.  One of his truest.  Aren’t you?”

The soldiers shifted, and he could see Steve again.  Everything that was left of him.  “Yes,” he whispered.

Zemo was practically sneering beneath that veil.  “Then tell me he’s dead.”

The room went silent.  Tony couldn’t make himself say it.  They were all watching him, all waiting for him, but he couldn’t do it.  Steve lifted his head with a seemingly ridiculous amount of effort, sweat and tears dripping from his beaten face, and met Tony’s gaze.  It wasn’t true.  Captain America _wasn’t_ dead, no matter what Zemo had done to him.  The man beneath the serum was alive, fighting, so Captain America was alive, too.  That was what he’d said before.  They couldn’t take the serum!  No one could!  That meant there was a way to get him _back_.  Didn’t it?  _Didn’t it?_

Zemo lost his patience.  _“Tell me!”_

“Captain America’s dead.”

Steve closed his eyes, and Tony felt low, awful.  Like a goddamn traitor for some reason.  Defeat left him crumpling and hating himself.  And defeat left Steve sagging in his captors’ grips until he was limp.  Zemo looked infinitely pleased.  “Finish him,” he ordered his men.

Rage blasted over Tony.  He railed, grabbing at the baron, curling his fists in his coat and yanking.  “No!  No!  I begged!  I said what you wanted!  _No!_ ”

“You forget, Mr. Stark,” Zemo evenly replied.  “I have _you_ at my mercy.  And I have no mercy.”

“Leave him alone!” Clint roared.  The men were hauling Steve back up, preparing to resume with the torture.  Clint was fighting wildly, uncaring about the gun jabbed into his back.  “You son of a bitch!  You wanna beat on someone?  Do it to me!”

The room went quiet again.  Zemo raised his hand, and his thugs stopped, practically mid-strike with fists frozen in the air.  He turned to Clint.  “What did you say?”

“I said,” Clint slowly seethed, “do it to me.  I’ll take his place.”

Steve trembled in the soldiers’ holds, unable to see Clint from his vantage but trying to anyway.  He squirmed and twisted until the men forced him down on his knees yet again, pushing him to the floor.  That still didn’t stop him.  “No, Clint!” he gasped.  “No, please–”

“Do it to me,” Clint demanded again.  The men let the archer up slightly at seeing their leader’s interest.  “He won’t last.  If you want to get your rocks off, beat me up.”

The offer was _horrifying_ , but it was exactly the sort of thing Steve would do if their roles were reversed, and everyone knew it.  In this case, Clint _could_ take the abuse better, last through the torture longer, endure it and survive it.  Tony battled to think, trying to get past his revulsion.  This was about protecting Steve by whatever means necessary.  “You did say that you wanted him to watch us suffer and die.”  He was saying it before he thought better of it.  Zemo turned a hawkish glare on him.  “What?  You did.  Back in the silo.  You said it would be an added pleasure for him to have to despair his own helplessness.”

“God, Tony…” Steve whispered around a moan.  _“No.”_

Zemo seemed to consider it, however.  The wheels turning in his head were practically visible.  He looked at Steve where his men had him helplessly pinned to the floor.  Then he looked at Clint where he was on his knees, jaw set and eyes determined.  Tony didn’t know what he wanted right then.  Zemo to take Clint up on his offer.  Zemo not to.  It was trading one friend being tortured for another.  How was that fair?  _Better?_   It wasn’t.  It was bullshit, and he hadn’t even thought to offer himself up to–

“Fine,” Zemo declared.

The men moved quickly despite the sudden shift in target.  Clint was hauled up, shoved forward, and Steve was dragged back.  The soldier was forced onto his knees at Zemo’s side, watching with horrified, enraged eyes as Clint’s shirt was ripped off, as his hands were bound behind his back.  “Watch,” Zemo ordered, fisting his glove in Steve’s mussed hair.  “Watch the price to be paid for your weakness.”

It took Clint even longer to start screaming.  Far more than a few hits, anyway.  When he did, though, the box of a room shook and echoed with it.  Zemo was so busy making certain that Steve watched every blow, heard every cry, that he didn’t seem to notice Tony’ eyes slipping shut and his mind checking out.  He let go, let himself drift.  It dragged on and on, and after a while, all he could think was that he hoped the screams got loud enough to shatter the glass between them and ocean so the water could rush in and swallow them whole.


	4. Chapter 4

This, Tony decided, was complete and utter _bullshit._

“Clint, can you hear me?”  Steve was bound and determined to try and wake Clint up, but Tony couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t better off unconscious.  He was a mess, a bad one, the sort that you’d picture running around a splatter movie only worse because this was real life and this was their friend.  Zemo’s men had gone at him for what felt like hours.  In truth, Tony knew it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes.  Clint would’ve been dead otherwise, not just lying limply in between them, barely breathing and covered in blood.  They’d beaten him until he’d stopped screaming, stopped whimpering even, his breath a faint, wet wheeze between reddened teeth and torn lips.  Once he’d finally passed out, they’d had lost interest in their sport and tossed him down like nothing in front of Steve and Tony.  Then they’d just walked out a moment ago, a few of them even laughing, the goddamn _bastards._

“Clint,” Steve said again.  He was shaking, probably with the onset of shock and the crushing realization of what Clint had just done for his sake.  It was pretty damn undeniable.  It had been for every long minute, every blow struck on Clint’s hapless body that Steve had been forced to watch.  The emotional trauma of that, compounded on top of _everything_ he’d lost, looked about as devastating as the physical damage he’d sustained.  “Come on, Clint.  Can you open your eyes?”  His voice broke, reedy and desperate, and his eyes shone wetly.  He leaned down to Clint’s chest, which was something of a feat considering he was only in marginally better shape than the archer.  “He’s barely breathing,” he softly, _gravely_ announced, like that wasn’t ridiculously obvious from the halting movements of Clint’s chest as his lungs tried to work.  Barton was so damn still otherwise aside from an occasional tremor that wracked its way over him.  And his eyes stayed closed, his face nearly bruised nearly beyond recognition.  One eye was swollen shut.  His nose looked broken, and red was dripping from down that to streak his cheeks and frame his mouth.  His hands were still bound behind his back and flattened beneath him.  There was blood in his hair, blood on his neck, blood staining his gray t-shirt dark purple…  Tony could hardly stand to look at him, once more battling nausea.  _God, Clint…_

Steve pressed his reddened fingers to Clint’s pulse point on his throat.  Tony watched him count, watched him struggle through the silence.  He counted along with him, because things were blurring between the present and the past (Steve leaning over Clint in the silo just like he was now only bigger, still trying frantically to rouse him, praying the blow he’d taken to his head hadn’t caused any permanent damage, and Tony still watching, always watching, _because he couldn’t do anything else_ ).  “Pulse’s not good.”  Steve’s eyes roved over Clint’s body, and he started tenderly feeling for broken bones.  He was obviously running down the list of what they could do.  Emergency first aid.  Laughable, since they had no supplies and no chance at receiving help.  Grimacing and obviously terrified of what he would find, Steve pushed up the archer’s shirt with his good hand, leaning over him again.  That wince tightened and tightened until it looked like Steve was physically pained, his face contorted and horrified.

The room was silent for a horrendous moment.  Tony couldn’t see from his vantage above Clint’s head.  “How bad is it?” he finally asked.

Steve swallowed thickly.  “It’s bad.”

Tony closed his eyes again.  He knew exactly why Barton had done this, thrown himself onto the proverbial sacrificial altar so that Steve would be spared, but _damn_ if he could make himself understand it and accept it.  _What the hell were you thinking?  What?  What?_   He breathed through his despair, listening to Steve do the same, listening, too, to Clint fighting for every weak wheeze.  This was somehow even worse.  This was somehow _so much_ worse.

“Tony.” Steve’s soft call was thunderous in the silence.  It broke right through the haze of misery in Tony’s head, and he opened aching eyes again.  The room spun, blackness and shadows and the vast, awful ocean around them, but he forced himself to focus on his friend.  Steve was staring listlessly at Clint.  He held his broken arm, which was red, swollen, and distended at the wrist, close to his breast.  When he finally looked at Tony, his eyes were wide and bright with terror, with so much damn grief and guilt.  “Tony, what do we do?”

 _You’re the Man with the Plan!_   Steve always had a plan.  He always knew the best course, the right course, the way to win the battle or protect the civilians or save the day.  He always knew what to do.  Down in that silo, he’d had answers.  He’d had a course of action.  Tend to their hurts.  Hold themselves together.  Climb up.  Find a way to get the silo doors open.  Climb out.  _Survive._ Steve was the one who’d led them.  And that was the point.  They _needed_ Steve to lead them!  Tony didn’t care what Zemo had forced him to say.  It wasn’t true, and he _knew_ that, but Steve needed to know it, too.  _You’re Captain America!_

He didn’t say it, though.  He didn’t dare.  Steve looked even smaller, even _frailer_ , than he had before.  It seemed like a weak wind would simply knock him down, and he’d _let_ it.  Seeing that was about as distressing as seeing Clint’s brutalized body between them but for entirely different reasons.  “Tony…” Steve murmured plaintively.  “What–”

“I don’t know,” Tony returned tersely.  He was never good with offering up comfort or solace.  “There’s nothing we can do.”

He could hear it before Steve said it.  “This is my fault.”

“Don’t start,” he groused.  “Don’t.”

Steve sat back on his rear.  He looked terrible.  Size aside, he was bloody and bruised, wheezing almost as loud as Clint was, and his bad arm was still tucked tight to his chest.  His damn wrist was blown up bigger and wider than his entire chest, for crying out loud.  “It’s _my_ fault, Tony.  Clint took a fall for me.  Zemo was after me.  He wants to kill _me_ , get his vengeance on _me_.  It’s all my goddamn fault!”

Rogers was still as self-deprecating as ever apparently, even without the serum.  And Tony had no patience for it right now.  He felt bad enough, horrible that Clint had been tortured, horrible that Clint had taken that fall and _he hadn’t_ , horrible enough that Steve had been robbed of everything that made him who he was.  He didn’t need Steve’s guilt on top of all that.  “Did you hear me, Rogers?  I said: _don’t start._   I’m not saying it again.  Clint made his choice.  You would have done the same if your roles had been reversed and you damn well know that, so respect what he did and stop blaming yourself.”

“I can take the hits,” Steve retorted hotly.

Tony wondered if he’d fallen off his goddamn rocker.  “You having a break from reality or something?  Suffering from some delusions of grandeur?  You _can’t_ right now!”  Steve looked away angrily at the reminder (as if he could deny it somehow, which was ridiculously impossible).  “You can’t take anything.  Without the serum, you’re–”

Steve’s eyes flashed.  Honestly, Tony preferred anger over submission.  He’d push buttons to keep Steve fighting, if that was what it took.  “I’m _what?_ ”

“You’re…  You know what you are!  You can’t fight like this!”  Steve snorted.  All the sudden he was moving, wrenching his arms out of Clint’s shirt as best he could despite his broken one.  His face bunched up in an agonized grimace again while he worked, trying to pull his bad limb free despite all the bruises on his chest and belly hindering him.  Tony shook his head.  “What the hell are you doing?”

“Giving Clint his shirt back,” he snapped through gritted teeth, “so we can use it to bandage him up.”

“Damn it, Steve.  Stop.”  Steve struggled ineffectually for another second or two, face flushed and eyes teeming with frustration.  “Stop.”  Tony put a hand on his shoulder to still him.

Steve wrenched away, but he couldn’t get Tony’s hand off his shoulder, which only heightened the fact was he was…  He was–  “I’m _weak_.  _That’s_ what I am.  Go on, Tony, just say it.  I’m weak and useless.  A damn – I can’t even – a _liability!_ ”

 _“Stop!”_ Tony snapped.  That stilled Steve, and he sagged back to the floor, choking on a hitched breath and digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.  His bony shoulders quivered.  He was falling apart, shaken to this core, and it was bleeding out him through all the cuts and scrapes, bleeding out on every breath.  Tony watched him a moment, torn between wanting to hug him and throttle him.  Then he yanked his own t-shirt off.  The chilly air immediately raked over him, prickling his gooseflesh.  “Enough.  I didn’t say that.  I’m not going to.  And you’re not doing any of us any good falling apart!”  Steve flinched.  Tony stared at him harshly.  He didn’t deserve to be treated like this, but there was no time for kid gloves right now.  Angry, he found a hole in the seam of his shirt and started ripping it apart.  “What did you think, that we were just gonna sit there and let these assholes kill you?”

“Like this is any better?” Steve retorted.  “Like having to watch helplessly while Zemo has you two tortured and murdered in front of me is better?”

“Get used to it.  When Zemo comes back, and he will, I’m donating myself to the cause.”  The minute he said that, Steve’s eyes went impossibly wider.  Tony didn’t quite realize what he’d promised for a moment, his brain (as it often was) trailing behind his mouth.  However, when it caught up, he felt oddly at peace with what he’d boldly proclaimed.  He was horrified, of course, but that ache inside him that Clint had done it first, that Clint had so selflessly thrown himself in front of Steve without a second thought and he hadn’t…  That was not exactly better but less hungry for certain.  Steve simply stared at him in a mixture of panic and betrayal.  “Don’t argue with me.”

“Don’t.  Please.  I don’t want you laying down your life for me,” Steve pleaded.  His voice shook, like the gravity of just _how helpless_ he truly was was really sinking venomous fangs into his heart now and poisoning him.  In spite of all that pitiable crap he’d spewed before, a part of him was very much still Captain America.  And Captain America didn’t let other people get hurt _period_ , let alone on his behalf.  “I don’t want that!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think any of us is getting what we want,” Tony grumbled.  Steve averted his eyes, shivering and ashamed.  Yet again, though, Tony couldn’t tell if it was from anger, pain, or just because it was cold in this godforsaken box and Steve had hardly any fat on his bones, let alone any clothes on his body.  The inventor drew what he hoped would be a centering breath.  “I’m not going to sit here and let him hurt you.  Zemo might have been full of a bunch of bullshit, but one thing was absolutely true: I’m your friend.  So that’s that.”

“We’re all gonna die down here,” Steve whispered.

Tony flinched.  The statement was small, naked, awful enough for its inevitability but even more so because of who was speaking it.  He looked from Clint’s beaten, unconscious face to Steve’s pale, gaunt one.  His heart ached, heavy in his chest, but he didn’t let his misery consume him.  He couldn’t.  As crazy as it was, for the moment, he was all that was holding them together.  What was left of them, anyway.  And while offering up empty solace and groundless hope wasn’t his thing, accepting their fate calmly and coolly…  That he could do.  “Then we’ll die.  It was probably a miracle we didn’t last time.  We shouldn’t have been able to escape.  Fate coming back to bite us in the butt.  Can’t cheat death twice.”

Steve actually quirked a feeble grin at that.  “ _Final Destination?_ ”

Tony couldn’t help his surprised grunt.  “Wow.  That’s a first.  You getting a movie reference?  And I didn’t even mean to make one that time.”

“Better late than never.”

Tony chuckled, but the moment of minor levity didn’t last.  He supposed there might have been a chance they could delay the inevitable.  Keep Zemo busy torturing them until the rest of the team came to the rescue.  There was no way to know how long they’d have to last, but Tony could pretty well guarantee it wouldn’t be long enough.  Captain America could withstand physical torment and torture.  If Steve still had the serum, it would have bought them some time.  But that was moot.  They were three normal guys, with normal breakable, human bodies (in Steve’s case, more breakable than normal), and their hours were numbered.  “Whatever happens,” he finally said with a long breath, “it’ll happen to all three of us.  Together.”

Steve stared at the floor.  “All for one?  One for all?”

“Now you’re just being crazy.  Two pop culture references in two minutes.”

“You do realize _The Three Musketeers_ was around when I was a kid.  I read it in school.”

“Don’t ruin the moment, Cap.  Now help me with this.”  Steve hesitated, watching as Tony pushed Clint’s shirt up himself to survey his injuries.  And Steve had been right before.  They were bad.  Definitely some broken ribs.  Probably internal bleeding.  At least that didn’t seem too serious, and his breathing might have been strained, but Tony didn’t think his lungs were badly compromised.  Still, Clint needed surgery and a slew of doctors in a hospital.  Tony clenched his jaw against his rage and grief, instead taking the strips of cloth and finding the worst of the welts and contusions.  In the quiet, with the breadth of the damage done to Clint laid bare, Steve had come closer.  “Here.  Hold this end.”

They worked in silence.  With his good hand, Steve secured one end of the strip while Tony carefully worked it around Clint’s battered torso.  They tried not to jostle him too much as they bound up his wounds as best they could.  It wasn’t very easy, not with Clint’s hands still manacled behind him.  While they had him somewhat upright, Tony took a quick look at the cuffs.  Steve would have been able to break them before, but for now (given that Steve could hardly manage to keep Clint’s torso elevated without getting flushed and winded) they were on there, good and tight.  Once or twice Clint grimaced during all the manhandling, but he never woke up, even though this was probably excruciating.  Once they finished and had Clint down again and tipped a bit to the left to take the pressure off his hands, Tony leaned back and appraised what they’d done.  It wasn’t near enough.  “It’s all we can do,” he said, more to himself than to Steve.  Steve wiped a bloody hand across his face, smearing red on his cheek as he tried in futility to clear a clammy sweat away.  He shuddered, and his chest gave an unnatural lurch.  “You okay?”  Steve nodded, but his posture and expression said otherwise.  He grimaced, wheezing louder, faster, both while inhaling and exhaling.  Concern was cold in Tony’s veins.  “Steve?”

“Asthma,” Steve managed.  He skidded back away from Clint a little, bare feet and legs squeaking on the glass.  His back hit the wall, and he nearly doubled over, choking.  His eyes were wide with panic, that clammy sweat now a veritable flood dripping down his face.  “God…  Forgot what – what this was l-like.”

“Easy,” Tony said.  Christ, this was all they needed.  Steve’s bum lungs giving out on them.  It wasn’t like they had access to any steroids or other medication, let alone an inhaler to deliver it, so they had better get this under control.  “Easy.  Nice deep breaths.”  Steve offered a halting nod.  Tony watched him struggle, practically witnessing his airways closing up on him second by second, breath by breath.  It was hard for him to stay calm, and it wasn’t even his lungs misbehaving.  “Come on, Steve-o.  Deep breaths.  You can do it.”

“Tryin’… Tony.”

“Okay.”  Yet again, there was nothing he could do.  Steve inhaled as slowly and as deeply as he could, and though it clearly troubled him, he held the air inside to keep his pace even.  Tony found himself breathing along with him, keeping a steady, purposeful rate.  They continued like that for a few long, uncertain moments.  He realized a bit into this that Steve _did_ know what it was like and how to deal with it, because he was managing it fairly well all on his own.  And of course he would.  He’d lived with this for twenty-five years.  It was nothing new, his lungs screwing him over, or his crooked spine or weak muscles or defunct immune system.  For some reason, that was oddly comforting.  This might have been novel, alien, and horrific to Tony, but to Steve, it was old hat.

Breathing slowly did the trick.  The attack never progressed, warded off by Steve’s calm, deliberate respiration.  Eventually his face relaxed.  Tony didn’t let himself relax, though, at least not for another few long, tense minutes.  Then he became more certain Steve was alright.  His color turned less hectic, and the lines of pain and concentration disappeared from around his lips and eyes.  “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve whispered.  He licked his lips, tipping his head back in obvious relief.  “Yeah.”

Tony reached over and nudged Steve lightly on his good arm.  “Fun times.”

“Right.”

The silence came back.  Tony was too exhausted and sick with a queer mixture of relief and anxiety to fight it.  They sat close, Clint between them.  The physical contact was all they had.  Everything else felt ominous, oppressive.  Surprisingly, despite there being hardly anything to distract him, Tony found it difficult to think.  He knew he needed to.  He needed to find a way to get them out of this mess.  But it was too hard to focus, especially when the nagging voice of reason in the back of his mind told him it was pointless.  The ocean swirled endlessly around them, deep and dark, and even though those windows were standing firm between them and certain death, it felt like the essence of it was already inside, crushing them.  It was claustrophobic, so much like the silo but in a totally different way.  Tony stared at it, hating it and Zemo and the godawful chain of events that had landed them in this situation with seemingly no way out.  No way up.  _Bullshit,_ he thought again angrily.

Clint groaned.  In the emptiness, the soft sound was so loud, and Steve immediately pushed himself even closer to the archer.  “Clint?  Clint?”  His long fingers curled into the meat of Clint’s bicep urgently.  Clint shuddered beneath that, and Steve let go as if he was afraid Clint was mistaking his touch for something worse.  “Clint, it’s Steve.”

Tony gave up on thinking unconsciousness was best.  “Come on, feathers,” he prodded, voice thick with worry.  “Wakey wakey.”

The door slammed open.  _Oh, crap._   In came Zemo and his retinue of assholes.  There was no talk this time.  They charged the three Avengers and yanked them away from each other, hauling both Tony and Steve up and dragging them away from Clint.  Tony struggled, of course.  Terror settled deep in the pit of his stomach, and he railed against it and against the men restraining him.  Someone belted him across the face, and the world tipped in and out of focus again as he was manhandled to the center of the room.  Distantly there was shouting.  It sounded like Steve’s voice.  Tony blinked tears loose from his eyes, fighting to think above the agony splitting his skull.  Yeah, Steve was right next to him, fighting like a wildcat despite how small and weak he was.  At least, that went on until one of Zemo’s goons punched him in the gut.  He folded like a house of cards, and they let him fall, laughing as he sputtered and fought for breath.  _Asthma._   That panicked thought stuck in his mind.  _Asthma.  Stop it.  Stop it!_   “Leave him alone!”

Zemo had his arms folded across his chest.  “I had wondered if you’d be as self-sacrificing as your compatriot, Mr. Stark.  What drives you, I wonder?  Valor or guilt?”

“Does it matter?” Tony snapped.  He yanked his arms loose, and the soldiers actually let him go.  He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain and the fear, ignoring his tightening throat and constricted chest and pounding heart.  Ignoring how he shook.  This was it, and he wasn’t going to let Zemo destroy his resolve.  This was it, and _he was going to do it._   He just had to get them started before he lost his nerve.  “And I’m the _most_ self-sacrificing out of anyone, you asshat.  So I’m ready.  Come on.”

Steve heaved a breath that sounded angry as much as it was distressed.  “Tony, no…”

“Shut up, Steve,” he hissed.  He lifted his chin, raising his arms out to expose his body.  It was hard to do it, but he’d do it.  He’d do anything.  And he laid it on thick.  “Here we go.  I’m ready.  Give me everything you got.  Come on, you pansies.  Hit me.  Come on!”

Zemo chuckled.  “So eager.”

“Yep.  Fresh meat, right here.  So let’s do this.  Let’s–”

Before anyone could so much as raise a hand against him, there was a tremendous rattle.  The vibration was deep, echoing like thunder, shaking the glass wall and floor.  Everyone stopped, suspended, it seemed, in an alarmed stasis.  Just as suddenly as it had come, the noise stopped, though, leaving the cell completely silent.  One glance at Zemo revealed the baron was about as stupefied, his own eyes glancing about in confusion.  Tony swallowed uncertainly.  “Uh, what was that?”

An alarm klaxon shrilly wailed.  Lights suddenly flashed red in the corridor beyond the room, spilling like blood inside.  There was shouting, as well.  Shouting in German and in English.  _“Herr Zemo!  Herr Zemo!_ We’re under attack!”

 _Attack?_   Tony hardly had a chance to process that.  Lights blasted inside the room, blindingly bright, and he raised his arm to protect his face.  They were coming from outside, from beyond the glass.  There were two powerful circles of illumination, almost like headlights.  _What the hell?_   It had to be some sort of vessel.  A submarine.  There was a moment – one brief second – where hope rushed over him that maybe, just maybe and against all odds, this was a rescue.  Fury and SHIELD.  Thor, Bruce, and Natasha.  They were here to save them.

Then the sub started _shooting._

“Holy shit!” he cried, instinctively ducking down to cover himself.  The room exploded into chaos.  Zemo was shouting, barely audible over the steady thudding of the attack on the exterior of the underwater complex.  The men were rushing around like chickens with their heads cut off.  Tony winced as something detonated against the glass.  It sounded so weird, again a low, powerful hum that was felt more than heard.  Horrified, he peeked through his fingers to see the window cracked just a bit.  Cracked but holding.  If it gave, they’d all die.  They had to get out there.  _Now._

Zemo was already gone, screaming at his cronies.  The ones left behind clearly weren’t certain of their orders.  This was a chance they couldn’t afford not to take.  Tony wrenched away from the men who were trying to grab him again.  “Steve!  Come on!”  He elbowed the soldier closest to him in the face.  The man went down with a cry, his nose a fountain of blood.  Hands reached for him, hands that he barely avoided.  He caught a glimpse of Rogers.  “Steve!  Get up!  _Steve!_ ”  Goddamn it, Steve was _still_ on his knees, wide-eyed and panting, _lost_ and not even struggling now even though the guys around him were all reeling.  _Shit._ Tony whirled, bringing all the hand-to-hand combat training he had courtesy of Captain America to bear.  He swept the legs out from another guy.  He thought it was the one who’d kicked him before when they’d dragged him here.  “Goddamn it, Rogers!  _Fight!_ ”

That seemed to snap Steve out of his stupor, and he looked up.  Tony caught his eyes for one split second, and that grounded him.  He wrenched away from the men with a cry.  Steve was too small and quick for them to grab him before he was moving.  He threw all of his weight, which was laughable, into one of the guards to his left.  It was just enough to send the man, who was already stunned and fumbling, toppling down into his buddies.  Steve grabbed a fallen rifle.  “Tony!”

Tony hooked his sneaker into the ribs of the guy he’d felled, kicking hard.  “Yeah, how do you like dem apples?”

_“Stark!”_

_Right.  Time to go._   The rest of Zemo’s men were running, scrambling to mount some sort of defense against whoever was out there, _leaving them behind_.  That was just as well.  This chaos (and it was chaos – _spectacular_ chaos) was providing a rather fortuitous distraction.  The glass wall was struck again, the thunder of it deafening, and Tony staggered from the force.  The room felt like it was tipping.  “Steve!”

For all his fear and impotency before, Steve’s eyes were _alive_.  He was already crouching near Clint’s unmoving form.  With his arm broken, he couldn’t do much with the rifle, so he tossed it towards Tony.  “We gotta get out,” he gasped, and Tony clambered closer, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.  There was a horrific snap behind them.  Cracks littered that glass, glass that was feet thick and all that stood between them and the ocean.  The smallest blow would likely be enough to cause catastrophic destruction.  Steve’s eyes were huge with terror.  “Tony, we gotta–”

“Kill them!” Zemo screamed from down the hall.  _“Kill them!”_

“Which them?” Steve asked.

“Does it matter?  Come on!”  Without words, they crouched and tried to pull Clint up.  Clint was on the shorter side of things, but he sure as shit wasn’t light, and with Steve as small and weak as he was, the task was nearly insurmountable.  Nearly.  This would be a whole lot easier if Clint wasn’t bound; as it was, the best they could do was grab his elbows and lift and drag.  “Come on!  Come on!” Tony cried in desperation.  He spared only a glance at the window, horrified to see the lights still bobbing beyond (and explosions beyond that.  Missile?  Depth charges?).  The bobbing shafts of harsh illumination were broken and refracted by the cracks running through the glass like webbing.  _Shit._   Deciding that even that brief look at that wasn’t worth it, he hauled Clint up harder.  “You got him?  Are we good?”

Steve didn’t have this.  Not by a long shot.  His broken arm was tucked to his chest, and he was bending under the strain of keeping Clint upright.  But he nodded.  “Yeah.  Yeah, go!”

They went.  The blaring of the alarms got louder as they shuffled toward the still open door.  Tony stared at it, stared and willed it to _stay open_ because it was pandemonium out there and maybe they’d been forgotten (maybe) but there was no way to know for sure.  If that door closed and was locked…  _Come on._   The urge to run to it and keep it ajar was almost overwhelming.  He couldn’t leave Clint with Steve, though, couldn’t trust the other man to take the weight, so either they went together or not at all.  _Come on!_   It was excruciatingly slow, Steve staggering and limping, Clint dead weight between them, battle apparently raging around them, but they were going to make it.  _Freedom._   They were going to–

“No!” Tony cried.  The door was swinging shut, two of Zemo’s thugs there.  Furious, Tony let Clint go, let him knock Steve right down, just so he could swing the gun up.  He pulled the trigger, the rifle resounding loudly despite all of the racket.  Both the men fell away dead.  No matter how many times he did it (and it wasn’t terribly often that he did) and no matter how evil these guys were, Tony always found killing someone with a gun off-putting.  He shoved that aside, though.  It was nothing compared to the horror they’d face locked inside this tomb.

“Tony.”  Steve’s startled gasp snapped him loose of that, and he turned to find the other man somewhat crumpled under Clint’s weight.  Somewhat.  He’d held up reasonably well, keeping Clint vertical so at least they didn’t have to struggle getting him upright again.  Slinging the rifle over his shoulder anew, Tony grabbed Clint’s other arm at the elbow and pulled him against him.  Steve got himself back to his feet, flushed in the face and wheezing, but his jaw was set and his eyes were still focused.  “’m okay.  Go.”

They shuffled out of the room.  That was a monumental victory, or at least it would have felt that way had it not been for the massive boom that shook the installation.  They were met with those dark corridors, lined with pipes and filled with concrete floors and doused in crimson emergency lights.  Ahead there were screams.  “We have to get out of here,” Steve rasped.

“Great idea,” Tony tightly quipped, turning around as much as he could with the brunt of Clint’s weight inhibiting him.  “Any idea how to go about doing that?”  More men were coming from down the shadowy hallway, reinforcements perhaps.  Tony’s heart stopped, and he fumbled for the gun again.  He didn’t need to.  The corridor exploded, the bulkhead blowing inward and killing the soldiers in a flash of fire and debris.  Chunks of metal flew overhead, and Tony yanked Clint and Steve down to protect them.  Down the corridor, water absolutely _poured_ inside, a huge, deadly spray of it.  “Oh, God.”

“What?” Steve whispered.  It was hardly anything, barely audible over the din, but Tony heard it loud and clear.  Rogers twisted around to look behind them.  His eyes went wide with horror.  “Not good.”

“No, really!  _Run!”_

They ran as much as they could, which wasn’t much.  They were dragging Clint between them, the archer’s shoes catching on the floor and adding more friction and resistance.  That felt like too much, irrational as it might have been, and Tony growled, hauling Clint along more and more roughly.  On the other side, Steve was gasping, practically hyperventilating, but there was no time to even spare that a thought.  _Go faster.  Faster._   The roar of the water got louder and louder.  Tony practically jerked in horror when his next footstep came down into icy wetness, when he felt a wave of liquid smack into his ankles.  Tony glanced over his shoulder.  _Oh, shit._ The water was coming in in a flood now, the hole in the wall widening and widening.  Further down the way, another part of the corridor faltered with the pressure and damage, and it burst inward as well.  Men screamed.  The sound of water pouring inside was deafening.  Ahead men were fumbling with control panels in the walls.  Tony realized then that the long corridor was sectioned, likely with emergency safeguard mechanisms to prevent the installation from flooding if a section became compromised.  And that meant…  _Crap._ Water-tight doors.  That was damn convenient for Zemo.  Trap his captives in a flooding compartment to drown.  No wonder they’d been left behind.

 _Really_ not good.

Steve staggered with a yelp and nearly went down as the water rushed them.  Tony gave a hoarse cry, fighting to stay upright himself, straining to reach across Clint’s shoulders.  He tangled his fist in Steve’s shirt and held tight.  “Don’t fall!” Tony demanded roughly, panic laced into his words.  His heart was pounding so fast he feared it would burst.  “Don’t fall!  Stay on your feet!”

“Tony–”

Again Tony knew what he was going to say before he even said it.  “No!  Don’t you dare!  You don’t give up!  _Come on!_ ”

They dragged themselves onward.  Tony sacrificed any grip he might have had on the gun to clutch Clint’s shirt with his other hand.  A huge wave of water nearly toppled them, hitting with all the force of a Mack truck, it seemed.  Tony barely got a breath before water slammed over him, sucking him down.  _No!_   His fingers tightened of their own accord – thank God _something_ was capable of acting – as the water battered them.  He wasn’t letting go of them, not either of them.  He broke the surface with a sputter, sucking in a glorious breath and getting his feet beneath him somehow, incredibly relieved that the water had actually shoved them _forward_ a good fifteen feet.  _Hallelujah._   “Steve!”

Steve had lost his grip on Clint, but he was _there_ , coughing desperately and looking like a drowned mouse as he pushed himself up out of the water that was rapidly rising around them.  “I’m alright!” he managed in a strangled voice.  “I’m alright!”

“Get up!” Tony ordered.  He got both hands under Clint by the armpits and pulled with all his might.  God, he weighed even more now that he was wet.  Steve slumped, gagging, bloody water spilling from his lips.  “Steve?  Come on!  We can’t–”  The roar of the swirling hell behind them intensified.  Tony couldn’t stop himself from glancing back again.  Another wall of sea water was coming at them, frothy from the force of it.  The corridor was narrow, making everything deeper.  He whipped back to the corridor ahead, where the water tight doors were starting to descend.  “Steve, we need to go!  We need to right now!”

Steve shuddered, floundering in water up to his waist as he knelt there.  He seemed to teeter again, visibly mustering up his strength.  Then he planted his hand on the floor and pushed himself up.  Tony didn’t wait, pulling Clint flush against him and fighting, fighting for every inch.  They were only twenty feet or so from the door, but the door was maybe five feet from the floor, descending slowly but steadily.  _Come on, come on, come on–_

Steve slipped and went under.  “Steve!” Tony screamed.  He watched the violently roiling water behind them, red lights and shadows turning it black and bloody.  Where was he?  Seconds, each as long as an eternity, slipped away.  The water was nearly up to their chests, pushing and pulling, a terrible, chaotic nightmare of contradictory forces.  Tony could barely keep his feet beneath him, could barely keep Clint tight to his chest, as the water rose and rose.  He couldn’t leave.  He couldn’t!  “Steve!  Where are you?”  There was answer aside from the thunder of the water and the creaking of the corridor.  He looked around wildly, frantically, darting his eyes from shadow to shadow.  There was no sign of Steve, no indication of flailing, no cry for help, _no nothing.  Do something!  Find him!_ Captain America could hold his breath for many, many minutes.  Captain America could swim against anything.  Captain America could survive this.  But Steve as he was?  Tony wanted to scream.  There was no time to wait!  “Oh, God.  Oh, God.  Steve!  _Steve!_ ”

Suddenly Steve broke the surface behind him.  He did so with a huge gasp, neck arched, hands scrambling for something to anchor him.  _Thank God!  Thank God!_ Tony struggled to keep his own feet on the ground, struggled to keep Clint afloat and his head above water, struggled and _struggled_ to reach for Steve as they were dragged apart by the massive currents battering them.  Their fingers brushed, and Tony stretched himself another impossible inch so that they grabbed each other.  He caught blue eyes, wide and frightened but _focused_.  Steve’s fingers dug into his wrist, the bite of his short nails into Tony’s skin real and harsh.  “Tony!”

“Steve!  Steve, I got you!”

It didn’t matter.  The door was almost closed.  They weren’t going to make it.  _They weren’t going to make it._

Something shook behind them, another explosion, and more water abruptly pounded them with crushing force.  The entire section was destabilizing and flooding.  There was no stopping it now.  All three of them went down, sucked beneath the surface and violently shoved forward.  Tony barely had a second to get a breath and even then it was mostly liquid.  Everything was shadows and water, the abyss twisting and yanking them down and ripping them apart from each other.  They were going to die.    _Drown.  I should’ve stayed down._

Then he hit something hard.  _The door._   Tony opened eyes he’d squeezed shut to find that there was light below from the corridor beyond.  The door wasn’t down all the way.  It was stuck on some sort of debris to the left, crushing it but not enough to seal completely.  There was maybe a two foot gap.  Somebody somewhere loved them; that was for sure.  Or enjoyed elongating their suffering.  Right then and there, Tony didn’t give a damn which.  He pulled Clint to him, sealed his mouth over the archer’s to give him the paltry amount of air he had in his lungs, and swam down, pulling the other man with him.  They could fit through, but it was going to be tight.  _Shit. Steve._   Tony looked around wildly, but it was dark and there was no time and–

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he nearly choked.  Steve was there, barely an outline of a darker shadow among slightly lighter shadows, but his eyes were bright and blue.  He nodded once and dove down through the gap.  Tony moved without thinking, his lungs burning and his body throbbing as he pushed Clint underneath the door.  Steve grabbed him and quickly pulled him the rest of the way.  The thick, massive door shuddered beneath Tony’s hands, pushing hard to continue its descent.  The inventor barely scooted beneath it, the water rushing through yanking him along.  The hunk of wreckage was pulverized as the door finally sealed itself shut.

The three Avengers nearly collapsed on the other side, crawling and sloshing just to put some distance between them and the flooded area.  Then they went down completely, coughing, choking, falling into water that was nearly up to their knees.  The water level was thankfully going down as the flood spread out and drained to other areas.  It took a quick glance to reveal that the door behind them was shut tight, keeping the danger contained, and they were safe.  They were also alone.  There was the sound of battle ahead, but it was distant, and that meant they had a moment.  A moment to make sure they were all still alive.  Tony realized he was, because death wouldn’t hurt so much or be so damn cold and wet, so that was good.  And Steve was there, coughing like mad but conscious enough to be doing that at least.  That left…  “Clint,” Tony sputtered, rolling the archer onto his back and propping him slightly.  “Clint!”

Steve was shivering so hard it seemed like he’d break himself apart.  “Is he breathing?” he whispered hoarsely.  “Is he–”

“Yeah,” Tony returned.  As if to confirm that, Clint wracked with a hacking cough, about a gallon of water exploding from his purpled, bruised lips.  Tony was quick to help him sit up more, whacking on his back a little.  “Easy, feathers.  Easy.”

Clint choked a moment longer, gagging as more liquid was expelled from his mouth.  Steve pressed closer, miserable and shuddering.  “Thank God,” he whispered.  He looked at Tony, rattled but offering up a relieved smile.  “Let me know when those fun times of yours start settin’ in.”

“Will do,” Tony replied, deadpan, exhausted, and chilled to the bone.  He looked around, relief leaving him shivering with more than just the cold.  Somewhere head people were yelling.  Alarms were blaring.  A feminine computer voice was calmly foretelling doom, something about the structural integrity of certain areas being compromised (knowing their luck, the one in which they were currently huddled seemed likely to be among them).  They needed to move.  Get away before anyone found out they were still alive.  Find out what was happening.  Find a place to hide.  Find supplies and weapons.  _Find a way out._   For this moment, though, all he could manage was a ragged sob, hooking an arm around Steve’s skinny neck and gently drawing him into a desperate hug, holding both the other men as tight to him as possible.  “At least we’re out of the room.  Yay for progress.”

“What?  What ’appened?” Barton slurred, his eyes fluttering open.  He grimaced, struggling against his bonds, before Tony stilled him and Steve laid a comforting hand on his heaving chest.  “What…”

“We went for a little swim,” Tony responded.  “No big deal.”

“…not dead, are we?”

Tony laughed.  “Not yet.”

“Awesome.”  Clint promptly passed out again.

Tony gave an incredulous grunt, staring at Barton’s lax, oddly peaceful face.  “Yeah, it’s all good.  We’re good.  Right, Cap?”  As pale and shaken as he was, Steve kept smiling that weak smile.  He nodded.  Tony smiled and nodded, too.  Then he closed his eyes and breathed.  _Yeah, we’re good._


	5. Chapter 5

It was amazing how a few months of relative peace and quiet had made Tony forget that in situations like these you really had to take things one step at a time.  It was abysmally difficult to plan ahead.  So even though his mind was racing – _find a map of this place and find a way out –_ he, Clint, and Steve were limping slowly, _very slowly_ , in search of some place where they could hide and figure out what the hell was going on.  Clint had regained consciousness again, which was fortunate because Steve was no longer in decent enough shape to help carry him.  Even with that small improvement, though, things were rough.  Clint was hobbled, both by his injuries and his arms still being bound behind his back.  He desperately needed medical attention.  His face was ashen and perpetually locked into an agonized grimace, his eyes sunken and listless, and he was wheezing horrifically with every shallow breath he took.  Steve wasn’t doing much better, particularly in the breathing department.  He must have gotten quite a bit of water into his lungs, because he was coughing a very wet, very deep cough.  He, too, was limping, and every bruise stood out dark and deep on his pale skin.  They were both shivering and bordering on shock.

It was probably a bad sign that Tony was best they had right now.  _One out of three.  Great odds._ As cold, wet, and miserable as he was, though, at least he was functioning fairly well, well enough, at least, to keep Clint mostly upright and walking.  Steve was on Clint’s other side, trying in vain to offer up some support, but it was laughable considering how badly he was shaking and stumbling.  The water had been frigid, and he was practically naked save for his underwear and Clint’s over shirt.  Tony felt the cold air tease the gooseflesh on his own bare biceps near his A-shirt.  At least he had muscles and fat to keep him a little warm.  Rogers’ lips were blue.  _Forget finding a way out.  We need supplies._   Between the three of them they had about one guy’s worth of clothing, a water-logged rifle that might or might not fire, and Tony’s brains.  Steve’s resilient strength and Clint’s sharp senses were on vacation at the moment.  _So come on, brains.  Think.  A place this big and this isolated has to have an infirmary._

That made sense.  This installation wasn’t just big.  It was _huge_ , far larger and more complex than Tony had previously imagined.  This was more than an undersea prison or even a hidden research facility.  It was very much a dark, cold, _evil_ underwater lair, like something straight out of Bond movie.  He supposed that made sense, given how Zemo seemed to conduct himself.  But the breadth of the layout was remarkable.  That much had become obvious almost instantly as they had trudged away from the flooded section in which they had almost been trapped.  Everything was so dark, emergency lights flashing red along the corridors, but there were obviously issues with the power systems.  The main lights were flickering here and there, and some rooms appeared to have electricity while others didn’t.  Whatever sort of attack was going on, it was doing a number on this place (and that was probably really bad, but there was nothing they could do about it right now so there was no sense in worrying).  There were still the sounds of fighting, still alarms blaring, but it was further and further away.  They hadn’t run into anyone else, which was both a minor miracle and a blessing because there was absolutely no way they could fight like this.  Either Zemo thought he’d killed them by trying to leave them behind (possible) or he simply didn’t care given he obviously had bigger issues than torturing and tormenting his three prisoners (probable).  It didn’t matter why.  It was just a damn good thing they were alone, limping and struggling and wheezing their way down corridor after corridor in search of _something_ to help.

Finally there was a sign at a T-junction.  Tony could have kissed it he was so excited.  He dragged Clint closer, the archer groaning and letting his head fall onto Tony’s shoulder.  “Steve,” Tony called, breathless from both exertion and excitement, “what’s it say?”

Steve wiped a wet, trembling hand across his face.  Captain America would have been to see the German words imprinted on the sign probably from down the hall.  This Steve had to squint and get really close in the poor light.  At least losing the serum hadn’t affected his memory at all.  What was it Tony had called him in the silo?  The poster boy for Rosetta Stone or something dumb like that.  “Main loading dock.  That way.”  Steve pointed left down a dark, foreboding corridor.

“That sounds good,” Clint murmured.  “Load me onto something to get me out of here.”

“That’s probably where all the fighting is,” Tony corrected.  “Hell truly has frozen over if I’m hearing better than you.”  Clint grunted wearily.  “What else?”

“Research block,” Steve declared.  He looked down the equally shadowy and unwelcoming hallway to the right.  “Down there.”

Visions of all sorts of unpleasantness danced in Tony’s head.  Again, they were images right out of some horror movie.  Experiments so ghastly, evil, and dangerous that this place, buried as it was under the ocean, was the only place safe for them.   He cast that aside with a heavy sigh.  Paranoia was paranoia, a waste of time and energy.  Research labs had supplies and computers.  “Let’s go.”

Onward they hobbled.  The corridor creaked and cracked around them, and in the silence, it was thunderous.  There was water dripping in, and debris lined their path, broken chunks of concrete and fallen sections of bulkheads and ceiling.  Tony worried more and more with each step that they were wandering blindly into danger (not that they’d ever really escaped danger, he supposed, but still it could always get worse).  This section could be structurally damaged, and there might not be any warning before things collapsed.  _Nothing we can do.  Have to take a chance._

They reached another junction.  “It says there’s an infirmary,” Steve announced after reading the sign.

“Oh, it’s our lucky day,” Clint murmured sarcastically.

“Left.”  So they went left.  The corridors here were narrower.  Biohazard warnings lined the walls and doors (which were failing to lock properly with the power disruptions).  One pair, the last before the main lab area, had partially closed, and Steve took Clint’s weight from Tony so the inventor could shove them apart.  He bared his teeth as he struggled with it, wedging himself between the doors and shoving, glancing once at Steve and longing for good, ole Cap’s strength to get the work done without him having to throw out his back.  They were shit out of luck on that front.  Nonetheless, Tony managed to push the doors apart another few inches, and that was enough for the three of them to get through to the other side.

“What the hell happened in here?” Tony whispered.  Lights flickered wildly, shedding inconsistent illumination over the area, but that was enough to reveal that the lab area was an utter disaster.  Things were strewn everywhere, papers scattered on the floor, desks upturned, computer smashed to pieces, lab equipment broken and tossed about.  There’d once been a glass divider toward the rear of the room, where lab benches were arranged in rows, but the wall had been shattered and was now on the floor in a million, glittering pieces.  Another wall to the left was completely smashed, drywall reduced to a heap of rubble around a hole.  There were more rooms behind this central area, but they, too, looked like a tornado hit them.

Of course, while the breadth of destruction was pretty alarming, much more so was the blood on the floor in a puddle by one of the desks.  And smeared in a gory streak across the far wall.  And splattered on the ceiling.  Red drops dotted the white papers, the white tiles, the while surfaces of the work benches.  It looked like a scene from a splatter movie.

“Jesus,” Clint whispered, now _very_ much awake.

Tony left him leaning against a desk for support and ventured slowly inside, terror pumping hard and harsh in his veins.  Papers whispered as he gingerly stepped on them, and glass crunched under his shoes.  A few computers were still running, alarms plastered all over the screens in German.  He picked up a tablet, ignoring the smear of blood on the side.  It was covered in the same red warnings flashing on all of the working screens.  The system was completely locked out.  Setting the useless thing on a desk, he looked around, not sure what to make of this.  Then he quickly averted his gaze when his wandering eyes landed on what looked like a ripped chunk of…  _God._

“Whoever did this, it was a slaughter,” Steve softly said, scanning the mess with wide, horrified eyes.

“You think?” Tony retorted tautly, bile burning the back of his throat.  He walked back, shuddering.  His heart was pounding, and his stomach clenched in queasiness.  “What gave that away?  The bloody abstract art they’ve got going on here?  The severed… _whatever_ over there on the floor?”

Steve gave him a withering look.  “It’s more than that.  I doubt the people attacking are responsible for this.  Think about it.”  Tony gave him a blank stare, brow furrowed in confusion.  Steve sighed shortly, clearly frustrated and shaken.  “There are no bodies.”

That was… disgusting and disturbing but sadly, _sadly_ true.  Tony hadn’t noticed it until now.  There was blood all over, but aside from that one chunk of flesh, the unfortunate victims of this gore fest were missing.  Granted, he didn’t want to look around too carefully; that one short glance of human remnants had been enough to kill his curiosity.  Still, he had a sickening, sinking, _godawful_ feeling that Steve was absolutely right.

Steve swallowed thickly.  “SHIELD or the others…  Well, they wouldn’t do something like this.”  He looked sick with the mere thought.  _Of course not.  Never._ “And if this was some enemy of Zemo… why would they take them?”  Steve shook his head.  “Whoever did this…  It’s probably someone who was here.  Someone on the inside.”  Tony closed his eyes.  Someone.  _Or something._  

“So where the hell does that leave us?” Clint demanded shortly, still slumped against the side of the desk.  He pulled in futility at the manacles around his wrists yet again.  Tony could only imagine how torn and sore they were at this point.  “What does it mean?”

Suddenly Tony couldn’t keep his nervousness contained.  “Doesn’t matter.”  He charged right back to Clint, grasping his arm firmly and helping him stand.  “All this tells me is we need to find what we need and get the hell out of here ASAP.  Agreed?”  Clint gritted his teeth, pain scrunching up his face, but he nodded and tried to take some of his weight off his friend.  Steve seemed more doubtful, shivering like crazy anew now that the immediate shock was wearing.  There was an odd look on his face as he glanced around the room again.  “Steve?  Agreed?”

“Yeah,” he gasped quickly at the prompt.  He was careful walking as he headed back to Clint and Tony.  He took Clint’s other arm by the elbow.  “Yeah, let’s go.”

“What?” Tony asked, knowing better than to dismiss anything bothering Steve.

The soldier winced, looking around some more.  “The warnings on the screens…  They say ‘biohazard containment breach’.”  That made Tony stop dead in his tracks.  His gut twisted up inside him until he was almost sick.  _Holy_ _shit._   Who knew what Zemo and his goons had been up to?  _Monsters._   He didn’t know why he kept thinking that.  It wasn’t even the most likely option.  Bioweapons.  Engineered diseases.  Toxins.  Experimentation.  _Human experimentation._   “I think…”  Steve’s eyes glazed with a distressed memory, his mouth tight with a frown.  “I think this is where they brought me.”

Tony didn’t know what to say.  He felt cold.  He caught Clint’s hazy eyes, Clint who looked about as lost as he felt.  Christ, what kind of horrors were down here?  _Doesn’t mean anything._   It didn’t, really.  They had to go forward.  They _needed_ to find some supplies.  They needed to find a computer that worked, a way to call for help or at least find out what was happening.  Otherwise they were hopeless.  And even if this place was contaminated with something, what did it matter?  They were already potentially exposed to whatever it was, a biohazardous contagion or toxin or who knew what.  How was that different from being shot or drowned or frozen by the icy depths?  They’d still be dead.  There was no reason to think this was any safer _or_ more dangerous than anywhere else.  Maybe that was bullshit reasoning, but it was all they had to go on.  “Let’s…  Let’s go.”

No one argued, so they went.

It took some doing, with Clint’s limited mobility and Steve’s relentless shivering and dangerously exposed bare feet, but they made it around the edges of the mess to the rear of the room where more corridors led away.  The carnage was less concentrated here but not gone by any means.  Things creaked and moaned.  Screams echoed in their heads.  Even the air seemed to have the tang of blood on it.  They kept quiet.  It was eerie, the air electrified as if everything was teetering right on the edge of something terrible.  Because of that, the mood was tense and uncertain, and shadows resembled monsters more than men.  Their eyes were darting everywhere in fear, their hearts booming, their breaths shallow and frightfully taken.  Nothing happened even though they were all waiting for it, waiting and expecting whatever had befallen the people in this place to befall to them.  Tony glanced in the rooms they passed, finding other labs and offices.  They were all empty.  Useless.  He didn’t bother checking any of them further, not wanting to waste the time or the effort and not wanting to risk exposure just in case one of them had triggered the failed containment protocols.  The really bad feeling he had was deeply ingrained in him now, amplified with every breath.  It was like filth on his skin, itchy and clogging his pores.  Both Clint and Steve seemed like they were caught between wanting to run in terror and wanting to collapse in utter exhaustion, so he figured he needed to get them somewhere safe before the former became necessary or the latter became inevitable.

It was probably a minor miracle they actually made it to the infirmary, all things considering.  Clint was really dragging by the time Tony spotted a bigger room that had to be their destination.  There were frosted glass windows, one of which was smashed in and lined with blood.  Beyond that he saw a few beds, an intact computer terminal that was as locked out as all the others had been so far, and counters and cabinets loaded with supplies.  “Gravy,” he murmured in relief.  “Come on, dead men walking.”

“Funny, Stark,” Barton gasped.

“Hilarious,” Steve agreed.

They shuffled inside.  For some stupid reason, Steve shut the door behind them even though the wall was all but gone not more than five feet away.  Tony supposed it was the thought that counted.  “You,” he said, laying Clint on his side on one of examination beds, “take a breather.”

“Gladly,” Clint whispered, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back onto the padded surface.

Tony set the waterlogged rifle down and turned to look over his shoulder.  “And you, come sit here.”

Steve wasn’t listening, digging through the cabinets lining the walls instead.  “Take care of Clint first,” he ordered, pulling bandages, gauze, and vials of medicine.  He wasn’t being too careful about it, partially because he was shaking so bad, partially because he only had one good arm, but mostly because he was desperate to do something useful.  “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” Tony responded, though not unkindly.  Steve turned to glare at him over a bony shoulder.  “At least find some scrubs or something to wear.  You’re practically turning into a Capsicle again before my very eyes, and it’s freaking me out.”  Steve’s glare hardened.  “What?  Don’t pout.  Just do it.”

He did pout (well, glower) for a moment or two more before shuffling to the taller cabinets in an adjacent supply closet.  Tony could hear him rummaging around in there, so he turned to the stuff Steve had pulled down and fished out what he needed to properly bandage Clint.  There was morphine (thank God) and a decent amount of it ( _thank you,_ thank you _, God!_ ) as well as a few vials of antibiotics.  Clint really needed a CT scan and potentially surgery, and they didn’t have the time, the tools, or the talent to do that here.  Still, this was a far cry over what they’d had going for them a few minutes ago.

Grabbing some syringes and his finds, he went back to the archer.  He’d practically passed out on the bed, breathing loudly.  Tony stuck his fingers into Clint’s carotid artery and counted.  His pulse was decent, which was probably more than he should hope for, but he was still angry that it wasn’t better.  He grabbed a pair of scissors and started cutting the strips of his shirt away from Clint’s damaged torso and belly.  Unveiling the injuries reminded him all the more that they were in some serious shit.

There was a rattle and a rustle and then a bang.  Tony leaned back.  “Steve?”

The pause that followed seemed rather rife with pain and embarrassment.  “’m okay.”

That threadbare reply wasn’t overly convincing.  “You sure?”

Now there was a pregnant pause.  “Could use some help.”

Tony rolled Clint more onto the bed as gently as he could before wiping his hands on his jeans and heading into the little closet.  Steve was near a cabinet.  He was stretched as far as he could be stretched, way on his tip toes, to reach up to the top shelf.  His broken arm was held tight to his chest, so he couldn’t do much to push up the huge pile of scrubs and sheets falling on him.  He was trying to hold it, but it was all balancing precariously.  Tony just stood and stared, half in amusement at the ludicrousness of it, half in horror, and then all in horror at his amusement.  Steve was huffing, and he looked at the door, glaring yet again.  “You gonna do something or just stand there?”

“Yeah!  Yeah.”  He rushed over, reaching over Steve to grab the mess descending on him.  Together they pulled it down gently.  When they were done, Steve leaned into the cabinet, breathing heavily.  He braced his good forearm against it, forehead to that, sagging in exhaustion.  Tony dug through the pile of scrubs, trying not to pay attention if Steve was falling apart (but damn it was hard not to).  The soldier was breathing raggedly, deep, hitched wheezes that sounded troubled, raw, and emotional.  He had to keep it together, partly because they didn’t have the time (or resources) to spend on falling apart, but mostly because Tony didn’t know how to deal with it.  His answer to things like this was to _fix_ it.  No point in crying over spilt milk.  Just freaking wipe the milk up and find a way to glue the damn glass to the table.

But he couldn’t fix this.  Tony finally found an extra-small pair of scrubs.  “Here,” he said, handing them to Steve.  Steve stared at them with hollow eyes, like he couldn’t recognize what they were.  He did take them eventually.  He struggled with the pants first, looking at Tony with a mixture of anger because he was there watching and a plea for help because this was difficult with only one working hand.  He managed, though, and while he did, Tony found another set of scrubs for Clint and himself.  When it came to the shirt, Steve grappled with it significantly more ineffectively.  Tony observed, pity and anger and so much grief roiling inside him.  It didn’t take long before he couldn’t stand it anymore.  “Let me–”

Steve yanked himself away.  “I can do it.  I’m not an invalid.”

“No, you’re not,” Tony snapped.  “So let me help you get dressed so you can help me with Barton.”

Steve’s eyes widened slightly, like he was all the sudden realizing he was being an idiot.  He flushed and looked away.  “Sorry.”  Tony worked the top down over Steve’s head.  Then came the hard part: getting Steve’s arm through the sleeve.  It took some time and gentle handling, but they succeeded.  Steve’s face was white with pain again.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.  You need to hold it together.  Like I said, when we get home, Bruce and I will fix this.”

Steve grunted.  “Things are truly all upside down if you’re the one telling me it’s gonna be okay.”

For some reason, that hurt, even though Tony knew it was true.  “I don’t like this role reversal any more than you do, believe me.  But this is where we’re at.  And, yeah, I moan and bitch and complain and see the worst possible outcomes all the time.   You call it cynicism, but it’s really realism.”  Steve grimaced and shook his head.  Before he could argue, Tony was going on, dressing himself in the dry clothes.  “And you know me, Steve.  I am _very_ realistic about one thing in particular.  Bruce and I are _much smarter_ than HYDRA and Zemo and the assholes who did this to you.  _We will fix it._ ”

That promise rang loud and true.  Steve searched his face, probably looking for hints of doubt or dismay, probably trying to draw some strength.  Tony nodded.  “So let’s go.”

They did.  With Tony’s help, Steve stood.  Gathering up the extra set of scrubs and some sheets, they started back to the larger room where Clint was.  As they passed another shelving unit, though, Tony caught sight of something that made him stop.  “Tony?” Steve questioned.

Tony pushed the stack of things to Steve.  “Hold that.”  Once his hands were free, he pulled a few laser scalpels from the shelves.  “Hmmm.”

“What’re you thinking?” Steve asked, watching him quizzically.

“Getting Clint loose.  Gonna need to amp up the power source, remove the safeties, probably refocus the laser…  Come on.”

Back in the other room, Clint was awake once more.  “You guys making heart eyes at each other somewhere where I wouldn’t see?” he weakly joked.

“You kidding?”  Tony retorted.  “That’s way too much man for me.”  Steve rolled his eyes.  “I’m gonna splint your arm first so you can work on Clint.  Then I’m gonna MacGuyver us something to cut through those cuffs.  We’ll get ourselves cleaned up and then head on our merry way.  Capisce?”

“Shouldn’t we find out what’s going on first?” Clint asked.  He blinked like he couldn’t focus.

Tony was already finding materials he could use to take care of Steve’s broken wrist.  “What can we do about it?  Nothing.  If they blow the shit out of this place and we all end up drowning, there’s nothing we can do to stop that.  If this place is flooded with pathogens that’ll turn us into zombies, well, at least eating Steve won’t be too fattening.”  The joke fell flat.  Steve grimaced and not just from the pain of having Tony touch his swollen wrist.  “Guys, as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter right now _who’s_ attacking Zemo as long as they’re keeping him busy.  So let’s take a minute to deal with our current crop of problems, and then we’ll go find some more.”

That seemed as good a plan as any.  Clint sagged back down.  “Alright, Nurse Stark.”

“Alright.”  It only took a few minutes to take care of Steve’s wrist.  He used a medical grade splint, molding it around the damaged joint to offer up some support.  Then he wound bandages tightly around that to keep it in place and hopefully immobile.  He found a sling as well.  The whole while his brain was going back to the silo, to Steve splinting his busted arm with discarded metal rods and strips of his undershirt.  _The tables have turned ironically._   The thought was more upsetting than anything else, so he cast it aside and instead grabbed the vials of antibiotics and morphine.  “One good thing about this, Cap,” he commenting, drawing some of the analgesic into a syringe.  “The good stuff will actually work on you.”  He pushed the arm of Steve’s scrubs up and poked the needle in.  Steve flinched.  “So at least you can be high during all this fun.”

“Hurray,” Steve cheered heartlessly.

Tony grunted, giving him an injection of antibiotics, too.  “Lighten up, buttercup.  Now do what you can for Clint while I work some magic.”

They were quiet for a bit.  Steve was doing his best with Clint; between the two of them, they devised some method of wrapping up his ribs with much better bandages.  Then Steve started working on the cut, scrapes, gouges, and contusions littering Clint’s chest and face with antiseptic.  Tony checked on them off and on, wondering if it would be worth the effort to see if they could find an ultrasound scanner or something of the like, something to check for internal bleeding.  He quickly decided against it.  What could they do if Clint was suffering from it?  Surgery was crazy enough as it was, but surgery in a place that had been exposed to potentially deadly biohazards?  He figured it would be better not to know (not like him, but what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, right?).  Steve helped Clint change out of his ripped up, damp clothes and into some clean scrubs, as well as they could anyway with Clint bound as he was.  Right.  _Let’s get those off._

He looked down at the contraption he’d fashioned from one of the laser scalpels and a power cell from another.  He’d wired the power supplies together, removed some of the failsafe mechanisms, tweaked the power converters with some tweezers he’d found, forced more energy through some of the circuitry, reconfigured the laser to a more confined point…  Hopefully he’d forced it to emit enough power to cut through steel.  Hopefully.

Steve suddenly giggled.  _Giggled._   Tony looked up at him in shock.  He’d known Rogers for quite a while now, and he’d _never_ heard the other man make a sound like that.  Steve laughed, sure, but it was always quiet and reserved, the kind of chuckle that indicated the man giving it never really let go, at least not all the way.  This…  There was sweat covering Steve’s face.  His pupils were blown wide, and he was smiling a ludicrously dopey smile, crooked and full of teeth.  For a moment Tony worried he was hurt more than he’d let on, that Zemo’s men had knocked a few screws loose with all their rough-housing, or maybe this was a delayed side-effect of losing the serum.  Then he realized he was being stupid.  He’d said it before.  Steve was _high._   He was floating free on the wonderful effects of morphine.  Pain dulled and troubles distant.  Loose and pliant and _giddy._   After so much time denied so much as a drop of relief when he was hurt, denied the fun of alcohol even, this must have felt… _good._

Despite how hurt he was, Clint must have come to the same conclusion.  “You okay there, Steve?”

Steve nodded, cheeks flushed.  “Yeah.  Oh, yeah.  I’m dandy.  It’s great.”  Unguarded like this, his Brooklyn accent came out, long and languid over his words.  “This is nice.  Ain’t it, guys?  Hot damn.”

Tony couldn’t help but smile.  “Feeling good?”

“The best, Tony.”  He giggled again.  “Sorry.  Shouldn’t be laughin’, but that…”  He pointed at Tony’s invention.  “That’s ridiculous.”

Tony frowned, picking up the souped up scalpel.   “What’s the matter with it?”

“Nuthin’,” Steve quickly gasped.  “Nuthin’.  Just funny lookin’ is all.  Like a laser gun.”  He made a gun with his thumb and forefinger, pulling the trigger a few times with accompanying sound effects.  _Holy shit._   “Like one of them laser gun thingers in _Star Wars._   Whaddya call ’em?  Phasers?”

“That’s _Star Trek_ ,” Tony returned.  He stared down at what he’d built.  It did kind of resemble a gun, with the extra power source secured into place with medical tape at something of a right angle with the scalpel itself like a grip.  And it did shoot a laser.  “ _Star Wars_ has blasters.  _Star Trek_ has phasers.”

Steve looked confused.  “I can’t ever keep those straight.  Which one has the Force?”

“ _Star Wars.”_

“And Klingons?”

“ _Star Trek._ ”

“And Martians?  How come none of these big sci-fi movies have Martians?  That was all the rage when I was a kid.  Pulp novels and serials.  I read _War of the Worlds._   Scared the bejesus out of me.  But nobody ever talks about Martians.  Isn’t it scarier?  I mean, they’re right next door.  It’d be easy for them to invade.”

“Uh…”

“And which one had house elves?”

Tony narrowed his eyes at the sudden change in subject (he guessed?  It was kind of hard to tell).  “That’s _Harry Potter._ ”

Another dopey smile.  “Kinda looks like a wand, too.”  He waved his good wrist a few times, and Clint and Tony stared at him like he’d sprouted an additional head.  “Abracadabra?  _Accio_ , handcuffs!”

Tony rolled his eyes.  “Close enough.  At least you were kinda paying attention when we watched it.”

“Oh, sure.  I remember when Dumbledore sent Frodo off to the Mountain of Doom with the ring.  That was good.  I liked that guy.  Great big bushy beard.”

 _God._   Tony moved toward Clint, wondering what strange world this was where Captain America was shrimpy, doped out of his mind, and babbling like an idiot.  _Maybe I really am dreaming._   “Alright, Legolas.”  Clint had the presence of mind to glare at him.  “What?”  Tony jabbed a thumb at Steve.  “He’s the one who brought up _Lord of the Rings_ this time.”

Steve frowned.  “I thought we were talking about _Harry Potter._ ”

Tony rolled his eyes again.  “Slide off the table.”  Clint did with some effort.  Steve was useful enough to help steady him.  “Okay, now push your arms back as far as you can.  And try to pull your wrists apart.”

“That gonna be strong enough to cut these?” Clint asked worriedly.

“Normally, no,” Tony replied, “but I kicked this baby up to eleven.”  Two pairs of blank eyes stared at him.  “Alright, we’re watching _This Is Spinal Tap_ first thing when we get out of this hellhole.  Now hold still.”  Clint put his arms as Tony said, even though it clearly hurt like hell, and stood as motionlessly as he could.  “Steve, you with it enough to help here?”

“Um… yes?”

“That’s reassuring.  Hold Clint’s wrists steady.  Easy now.”

“Roger wilco.”

Rolling his eyes _yet again_ , Tony positioned the laser scalpel.  There was about an inch of steel between the two cuffs, so at least he had some space with which to work.  With any luck firing this thing up wouldn’t result in them getting blown up.  “Here goes nothing.”

“I lose a hand thanks to your mini-lightsaber, I’m gonna kick your ass, Stark,” Clint gasped, his voice tense with worry and pain.  “And if you make some sort of bullshit crack about you being my father–”

“That one’s from _Star Wars,_ ” Steve proudly declared.  “That one I know!”

Tony thumbed the switch.  The white laser came out, exactly as he’d planned, and nothing exploded.  _Score.  I’m awesome._   Now for the true test, though.  With Clint turned the other way, there was a lesser chance of hurting him, but he didn’t want to expose any of them to a laser this hot and strong any longer than necessary, so he went to work cutting.  It didn’t take more than a second for him to see this was going to be successful.  And it took another second for him to feel heat building uncomfortably in the second power cell he was holding.  _Hurry._   Another few seconds stretched by, Clint squirming a little and Steve thankfully silent.  Finally the laser sliced all the way through the bindings, and that was that.

“I rule,” he declared smugly as he switched his invention off.

Clint tenderly pulled his wrists apart, groaning as muscles that had been trapped in a singular position for a while protested with cramps and twinges.  He brought his newly freed hands forward, shuddering in relief.  “Thanks,” he breathed with sincere gratitude.

“Alright.  High five!” Steve declared, raising a hand to each of his teammates.  Never during all the battles the Avengers had fought together had he _ever_ asked for a high five.  Tony shook his head, indulging his friend.  “You’re hittin’ on all sixes, Stark.”

“Um, sure.”  Tony grabbed for the vial of morphine and another that had antibiotics.  He filled a new syringe with the latter and gave Clint a shot.  “You want some painkillers?”

Clint desperately needed them, if the yet waxy appearance of his skin and the tight lines around his mouth and eyes were any indication.  “Will it turn me that loopy?” he asked with a strained hint of a smile.

Tony shrugged.  “Might.”

“Hey,” Steve protested.  “That’s not nice.”

“Who knew Cap went motor mouth under the influence,” Barton said, still trying to grin.  Tony wouldn’t say it, but giddy, goofy Steve was better than forlorn, defeated Steve.  He smiled himself, loading the syringe with morphine, and giving Clint some much deserved relief.  Hopefully it wouldn’t make him too sleepy (or as much of a chatty Cathy as Captain Drugs-Are-Nifty here).  Almost immediately Clint’s face relaxed from the screwed-tight grimace he’d been wearing since he’d woken up, and he sighed.  “Thanks.”

The lights went out.  All of the sudden, they were reeling in pitch blackness.  Tony instinctively reached out and snatched both Steve and Clint and pulled them closer.  His heart was pounding so hard it was threatening to burst out of his chest.  Panic almost made him choke.  Clint shuddered.  “What–”

And the lights came right back on.  It hadn’t even been long enough for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.  “Power fluctuation,” he murmured.  Behind them, the computer terminal chirped, and it rebooted.  He watched it work through its power-up sequence over Clint’s shoulder as the three of them stood still, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  It didn’t, and when the computer finished, it was sitting on a login screen.  A login screen he could work with.  “Fat.”

He walked over and sat in the rolling chair in front of it.  _It’s a Unix system._   He smiled to himself.  _I know this._   Unlike _Jurassic Park_ , though, this wasn’t some ridiculous GUI.  Just a plain, old fashioned command prompt.  He could beat that.  “What’re you doing?” Clint asked, walking closer on his own power ( _thank God_ ).

“Hacking,” Tony replied, his fingers flying over the keyboard.  “If I can get in, maybe we can figure out what’s going on.  Maybe even find a way to signal the others.”  For some reason, that was hilarious to Steve.  He tried to say something, but it came out as a garbled mess, and then he laughed loudly.  “Whoa, there, Rogers.  Don’t give yourself an asthma attack or something.”

“You,” Steve sputtered.  He was red in the face, giggling almost maniacally.  “Hacking!”

Tony didn’t get the joke.  He wasn’t sure there was one.  “How much of this stuff did you give him?” Clint asked, holding the vial of morphine.

“Obviously too much.”  Who knew what Steve’s metabolism was like now?  Superfast or outrageously slow?  It didn’t matter.  The thought of an asthma attack had his mind racing.  “Barton, you feeling up to getting some stuff together?  I think there was a bag in the other room.  Fill it up.  Bandages and drugs.  See if you can find some asthma medications.”

Clint looked doubtful.  “That seems like a tall order.”

“Might well be, but try.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Um, albuterol, I think.  Or corticosteroids.  Take the morphine, too, and find some epinephrine.  I think there was some there in the mess that Steve pulled down.  Take the class clown with you.”

Now Clint was the one who took Steve’s arm and led him away.  Thank God the archer seemed better.  The pain medication was doing wonders.  The two of them went to work gathering up what they needed, and Tony went to work on the computer.  As he typed, he could hear Clint murmuring softly and comfortingly to Steve.  It always surprised him how gentle Barton could be sometimes.  When it really counted, he was ridiculously supportive.  Tony saw it all the time with Natasha, if she was low or feeling dark or uncertain.  Clint was always right there, never pressing or pushing, just a stalwart presence keeping an eye on things.  Additionally, though Tony wouldn’t say it, a part of him was really glad Steve was blissed out, for lack of a better term.  Anything to make this better for him.  _Anything._

The computer beeped when he finally hacked his way inside.  It only took a few minutes but it felt longer as he grappled with its security measures.  Once he had access, he immediately took stock of things.

It was just about as bad as he feared.  Not that he’d had much hope it was Thor blowing the shit out of this hellhole, but seeing that it wasn’t was still a massive disappointment.  He frowned, blinking away the burning in his eyes ( _stop it_ ), and cleared his throat to get that lump out of there.  “Well, I guess that explains some stuff.”

He heard Clint and Steve shuffling back.  “What’s the story?” Clint asked calmly.  Tony enlarged the video feed he’d just been watching so that the other two could see it.  It was a live image of what was happening at the loading docks.  The system was complaining about damaged airlocks, damaged docking platforms, damages upon damages.  It was clear why.  It looked like World War III was occurring, guns flashing as they fired, things burnings, men dying.  One group of soldiers was hiding behind what looked like supply crates, trying to shoot back at the invading force.  Tony grimaced when he caught sight of the emblems sewn into the shoulders of the invaders’ uniforms.  “HYDRA,” Clint muttered.  “Who…”

“It’s Strucker,” Tony answered.  He pointed to an image of a man standing back and to the side, protected by a veritable wall of soldiers.  It was hard to see because of the chaos and the digital static troubling the feed, but that shortly cropped hair, monocle, and smug stance was pretty undeniable.  _Baron Wolfgang von Strucker._   Another of HYDRA’s head henchmen.  Another tyrant whose family had served the Red Skull and whose roots were deeply intertwined with the history of the evil organization.  It was no secret that Strucker and Zemo did not get along.  Maybe they both wanted the Avengers dead and the world kneeling at their feet, but they were far from united and even farther from friends.  It seemed to be a dog-eat-dog world among HYDRA’s elite.  _So much for common goals._

“What the hell is Strucker doing here?” Clint mused.  “Not that I’m not glad that they’re busy killing each other, but this can’t be good.”

Tony glanced over his shoulder, where Steve was somewhat dazedly leaning against the examination bed.  He was shivering again, looking sick like all of his good cheer had suddenly vanished.  “I’m guessing word traveled the bad guy gossip groups that Zemo took us.  Strucker wants what Zemo has.”  _The serum._   If there was one thing that Tony was sure their enemies would fight over, it was the chance to bring Captain America to his knees.  And the chance to get their hands on Erskine’s formula.

Clint clenched his jaw.  “Can you contact the others?”

Feeling rattled more than relieved, Tony quickly brought up additional information.  “No,” he declared unhappily.  “The attack damaged the umbilical between the installation and whatever’s above.”  All sorts of warnings filled the screen.  “Communications are down.  And that’s why the power’s fluctuating.  This whole damn thing is about one more hit from going completely dark.”

Clint didn’t bother with dismay.  “There a schematic of this place?”

Tony furiously searched the file system.  Thank God there as a map, and he brought it up.  It was tied into the installation’s emergency systems, which was convenient because it automatically showed where the damaged and closed-off areas were.  Tony’s quick eyes devoured the image.  The place was as huge as he’d imagined, shaped like flattened and stretched semi-circle with two large wings curving around.  “Okay, we’re here.”  He pointed at the lab, which was all the way on the left wing and thankfully mostly intact.  _Save for the biohazard warnings._   He decided not to think about that or the fact that the containment systems weren’t functioning optimally.  “Here’s where we were.  Flooded and sealed.  And here’s where they are fighting.”  He pointed to the massive loading dock that was near the middle of the installation.  “There’s an awful lot of damage.”

“Yeah, and umbilical connects there, too,” Clint added, looking at where the elevator attached to the cabling connected to the installation.  “I don’t think we’re going to be able to get to that, even if it’s operational.”  As much as he didn’t want to, Tony had to agree.  “What else is there?  This place has to have other ways to evacuate.”

“You think HYDRA cares about emergency escape plans?” Tony said.  “You said it before: they treat their people like a bunch of expendable red shirts.”

Clint winced, shifting his weight.  He picked up the rifle and started checking it over, ejecting the magazine before slamming it back.  “Can’t stay here.  What’s in the other wing?”

Tony scrolled over.  The opposite side was in far better shape comparatively.  “Barracks.  Mess hall.  Weapons storage.”

Clint pointed at the screen.  “What’s this?”

Tony zoomed in on the room.  Whatever it was, it was large, probably the size of the lab in which they were, and somewhat dome shaped.  “No idea.”  There was another structure like that on their side so said the map, but when Tony looked at the system reports, it seemed like it was _gone_.  Not destroyed because the areas surrounding weren’t damaged, but missing.  “Do you think it detaches?”

“You’re the engineer.”

Tony stared at a moment.  _An escape pod?_   This dumb map didn’t have things clearly labeled, but that was certainly what it looked like.  That might explain where Zemo had gone in a hurry with his serum sample.  _It’s the best we got._   “Let’s go.  We’ll swing wide, avoid the loading bay.  This main corridor here–“  He pointed at the schematic again.  “It’s not flooded and should take us clear to the other side.  If these damage reports are right and the way is clear and if we can get over there without anyone seeing us, and if, _if_ , this thing is some kind of escape mechanism, maybe we can get out of here.”

“Bunch of mighty big ifs,” Clint reminded.

“We don’t have much else.”  Clint gritted his teeth but didn’t argue because it was unfortunately true.  “Come on.  Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” Together the three of them gathered their supplies, the bag full of medical things, the gun, and Tony’s laser scalpel contraption.  Both Clint and Steve were limping pretty badly, so again their pace wasn’t very quick as they ventured back out into the corridors and around the lab toward where they had come in.  With the lights still partly functional and the hallways filled with debris, it was even slower going.  Plus this place was like a damn maze, winding corridors and so many rooms.  Nobody was brave enough to go into any of them, not with the biohazard warnings still flashing.  The tension returned, this time married with the horrific feeling that they were being watched.

At least it wasn’t so quiet this time.  If it hadn’t been such a small comfort, Tony would have told Steve to shut his yap.  As it was, it was oddly pleasant, hearing him prattle drunkenly.  “ _Star Trek_ is pretty neat.  I always thought it would be fun to be an explorer.  And I like the actual science part of it.  Must have been pretty interesting to live through seeing some of the inventions on the show become reality.  Although doesn’t it kinda break the fourth wall that there was an actual space shuttle named _Enterprise_ after the _Enterprise_ on the show but then in the show the _Enterprise_ is named after the space shuttle?”

“What?” Tony asked, wincing.  His head hurt too much to follow the logic, and his skin was tingling with disquiet too much to really concentrate.

“I don’t think that’s how it worked,” Clint answered, gripping the gun tighter.  It was a relief having his sharp eyes guarding them again, even if he was limping like crazy.

Steve shook his head.  “Sure.  In the last movie with that Khan guy.  It was on that guy’s desk.  All the ships named _Enterprise_ , I think.  You know what I don’t get?”

“Going through that could take hours,” Tony muttered.

“How come you can’t be a _Star Trek_ fan _and_ a _Star Wars_ fan?  It seems almost sacrilegious or something.  Isn’t it okay to like both?  They’re pretty different, when you think about it.”  He shook his head, like this was really bothering him.  “It’s not nice, being down on someone for liking something else.”

“Welcome to nerd-shaming,” Tony replied.  “Had no idea it bothered you so much.”

“Just don’t get it is all,” Steve said.  “People fight over really stupid stuff.”

“Amen to that,” grunted Clint.

“You know what else I don’t get?”  Tony sighed.  “Pluto.  So it’s a planet for seventy years and then they just decide it’s not anymore?  Can they do that?”

Tony cocked an eyebrow.  “They’re scientists.  They do what they want.”

Steve grunted, shaking his head ruefully.  “Kinda sad, you know?”

“Don’t tell me you feel bad for an ex-planet.”

“Well, yeah.  It’s like gettin’ kicked out of the group just for bein’ little.”  His voice got quiet, and for one crazy second, Tony wondered if he wasn’t relating his own life to Pluto.  To _Pluto_ , for crying out loud.  _Is this where he gets all weepy?_   Steve sniffled.  _God, it is._

Clint picked up on the change in mood and redirected the conversation.  “You know, they made a movie out of _War of the Worlds_ not too long ago.  It was alright.  The tripod things were freaky.”

Steve didn’t snap out of his maudlin mood.  He did answer, though.  “Haven’t seen that yet.”

“So I guess you like _Star Trek_ and _Star Wars_ equally then,” Tony went on, trying to keep the conversation going.  They rounded a corner.  This area was definitely more isolated.  There were fewer offices and more security checkpoints, all empty and without power.  “When you can tell them apart, that is.”

“I can tell them apart,” Steve huffed.  “And I didn’t say I liked them equally.”  He looked troubled again.  “Just said I…  I liked them both.”  He turned abruptly and looked behind them.  The hallway was empty.

Clint and Tony shared a worried glance.  “So then which do you like better?”  Steve said nothing to the question, pulling away from them to walk a few paces back to a corridor they’d passed.  Tony looked at Clint, getting more concerned by the second.  “Steve?” he called.  “Cap!  What is it?”

Steve ignored him completely and walked down the other hallway.  _Shit._   Tony grabbed Clint’s arm to help him as they followed.  The corridor was dark, lights unevenly flickering.  There was a room ahead, and Steve was a short shadow boldly going inside.  “Steve!” Clint yelled.  His voice echoed, and Tony winced, glancing around wildly.  That feeling of being watched got worse, anxiety mounting in his stomach until he felt nauseous with it, but there was nothing around them but stillness and darkness.  “Steve!  Wait!”

“What the hell?” Tony whispered.  Clint brought the rifle up, limping as quickly as possible after their captain.  Tony went after – _what choice was there?_ – until he burst into the room beyond.

 _Oh, damn it all to hell._   He took one look and realized _what_ this place was.  Why Steve had been so weird about the lab to begin with, and why he’d come here.  The area was as trashed as every other room they’d seen, with supplies knocked from tables to the floor and papers and computers spilled everywhere.  A lone examination table was in the center, complete with restraints, and above that some hideous apparatus hung down with countless needles attached.  It was grotesque, something out of a nightmare, a cephalopod with iron tentacles to trap its prey and suck it dry.  _An octopus._   _HYDRA._

This was where they’d done it to Steve, stolen the serum, _stolen Captain America._ There was machinery above the metallic arms and endless needless, machinery that had filtered Steve’s blood of the serum before pumping it back into his body.  It was unbelievable, horrific, worse than anything Tony could have imagined.  He closed his eyes tight and looked away, unable to process his grief and rage.

Steve stared at it, though.  He stared, and his eyes were wide, face as white as snow.  He was shivering hard.  “I couldn’t…”  He shook his head, like he was trying to deny something that was absolutely undeniable.  “I couldn’t stop them.”

“Steve,” Clint whispered.  He chanced taking a step forward and putting a bruised, bloody hand on Steve’s shoulder.  “Don’t.”

Steve whirled.  “Don’t what, Barton?  Huh?”  His voice was raw, its pitch all _wrong_ , and his eyes burned bright with tears.  “Don’t be like this?  Don’t be _nothing_?  That’s what I am now!  They took everything!  They tied me down and…  _Goddamn it!_ ”

 _Jesus._   They couldn’t afford to do this.  They couldn’t afford to have Steve bounce off the walls and crack into pieces because when they got done trying to put him back together they would have only wasted time and effort they couldn’t spare.  Clint raised his hands in surrender.  “Just take it easy, okay?  It’s going to be alright.”

 _“Bullshit!”_ Steve snapped furiously.  “It’s not going to be anything!  I’m goddamn useless like this!  We’re all going to die down here, and I can’t stop it!  _I can’t stop it!_ ”

Clint paled further somehow.  “Tony, go.  Look at the computers.  Maybe there are answers.”  He suggested that desperately, like he wanted to try anything to make this better no matter how unlikely it was to work.  A holding action, really.  Slapping a band aid on a mortal wound.  The archer’s look turned hard and insistent when Tony didn’t move.  “Come on, Stark.  Go check.”

Tony’s feet were walking because his brain had kind of checked out.  He headed to one of the computer terminals and logged in the same way he had before.  Sure enough, all of the data on what they’d done to Steve was there.  It was in German, but he was able to quickly locate a translation algorithm on the mainframe.  Both Steve and Clint were watching him as he searched through the documents.  Details of the experiment.  Logs of Steve’s vitals.  Reports on the efficacy of the drugs they’d used to incapacitate him.  Schematics for the machine that had filtered the serum from his blood.  They’d used some combination of Gamma radiation and a bonding agent to do it.  He didn’t pretend to understand the science, not without Bruce’s help and time to actually digest this and a clear head to face the emotional implications.  It went on and on, files and files of HYDRA’s project to destroy Captain America by reverting him to his pre-serum state.  The procedure was not efficient; after passing Steve’s blood through the filtration equipment numerous times, they’d only managed to collect 330.6 milliliters of usable serum.  A little more than a bottle of soda.  The one vial Zemo had had.  The rest had been damaged and irrecoverable.

He read and read.  Minutes were slipping away, minutes they couldn’t lose even though this had suddenly become paramount to _everything_.  What he should have done was find a way to collect the documents and data so Bruce could pull them apart later in the safety of the Tower, but with both Steve and Clint yet again pinning all their desperate hopes on him, he couldn’t just stop.  He finally reached a summation.  The doctor’s notes.  His eyes flicked over the text.  _“The subject’s body appears to no longer be generating the serum.  The inhibitors have caused an irreversible genetic suppression.  Even the antidotes have failed to restore his body to its original, enhanced state.  It is possible a shock to the cells might induce more production, but at this point I believe we have extracted all we can.  The subject is too weak to attempt further filtration.  I will suggest more experimentation, but I doubt my advice will be heeded.  Still, we can begin replication with the sample we have.”_

 _Irreversible suppression._   They’d tried to stop what they’d done to Steve so his body would make more of the serum, more that they could steal, but they’d failed.  The drugs they’d used to inhibit him had been too strong and potent simply to stop.  _Irreversible suppression._

_Irreversible._

“Tony?”

Tony looked up.  Steve was staring right at him, eyes bright, teetering on the edge.  Tony never even had a chance to figure out what to say.  His expression must have said it all.  His own misery, teeming and burning in his eyes.  He shook his head helplessly.

Silence.  Deep and terrible.  It went on and on.  Then Steve choked.  His face scrunched up.  He was shaking.  Shaking apart.  Tony didn’t think he could stand this.  He didn’t think he could watch it.  _This is it.  This is where Captain America dies._

Suddenly Steve stalked over to the table, the table on which he’d been tied down, on which he’d been reduced and depleted.  On which he’d been unmade.  He pulled at the straps, pulled like he was testing to see if they’d been as unbreakable as he’d remembered.  There was a loud, rough sob.  Curling his fingers into a fist, he rammed his hand into the table, but a blow that would have once destroyed it now hardly shook it.  Steve swore in frustration, loudly, vulgarly, swore in a way that he never did.  There was nothing he could have done to stop them, and there was nothing he could do now, nothing other than hit that table.  Hit it and hate himself.  And he did.  He punched, busting his knuckles open even with his broken hand, busting his heart open wider.  Tony couldn’t bring himself to stop him as he undid all the work they’d done to fix his wrist and prop up his battered soul.  He was beyond pain, beyond grief, drugged and in shock and lost up in trauma.  And he went until there was nothing left to give.

Then he collapsed onto his knees, gasping harshly, eyes wide and dripping with tears.  Sweat, too, rolled down his flushed face.  He gave a keening, desperate cry, wordless and _broken,_ and Tony choked on a sob himself.  _God.  Do something to help us.  Please…_

Clint hobbled closer to Steve, kneeling beside him.  At first Steve shrugged away from his comforting hands, but his stubbornness didn’t last him.  He grasped Clint like a lifeline, weeping softly now, clutching him with bloodied fingers.  Tony staggered closer.  He also went down onto his knees in front of his friends.  The sigh of which he let go was deep and heavy with grief.  He wiped his eyes and reached his hand to Steve’s shoulder.  “It’s alright,” Clint finally hushed, holding Tony’s gaze as firmly and bravely as he could.  “It’s alright.”

“It’s not!” Steve moaned back.  His eyes were squeezed shut, his face blotchy and red, and he wheezed through every breath.  “It’s not.  Should – should be better than this.  Shouldn’t cry like this!  Should–”

“Shh,” Clint returned.  “You’re allowed to cry.  You can cry all you want.”

The next gasp was half of a laugh but mostly just a whole of pained wheezing.  “Don’t…  Don’t like cryin’.”

Clint sighed.  “In the bag there’s…”  Tony dug and actually found an inhaler of all things with a cartridge of asthma medication.  Apparently their search for drugs had been more lucrative than he thought it would be.  He punched a cartridge of meds into the device.  “Here, Steve.”  He handed the inhaler to Steve, helping him get it into his mouth and take a few deep breaths of it, depressing the top to deploy the medicine.  This went on for a few quiet seconds, and as the drugs began to rapidly affect Steve’s damaged airways, he started to breathe easier.

Once that was over, Clint managed a smile somehow.  “Better?”  Steve didn’t seem capable of speaking, so he nodded.  “Look, it’s alright to be pissed.  Hell, I’m furious _for_ you.  It’s understandable.  And it’s understandable to be afraid.  But you are not now nor have you ever been and nor will you _ever be_ useless.  So stop it.  Despair’s gonna kill you.”

“You’ve been walking the edge of it since it happened,” Tony added.

Steve shuddered.  He licked his bruised lips after taking another puff of the medication.  His voice was a strained whisper.  “There’s no way out.”

“Maybe not,” Clint conceded.  “But maybe–”

There was a _roar._   It shook the room, vibrated the floor, the walls, _everything._   Steve jerked away from Clint, leaning up in shock.  Tony twisted so fast a twinge of pain shot right up his back and sore midsection.  “What the hell was that?” he whispered.

Another howl, decidedly _inhuman_ , echoed throughout the area.  _Oh, God._ The three of them held still for an endless moment, listening.  Fearing.  Tony’s blood practically froze in his veins.  Then there was another keening sound and a scream.  Clint pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the rifle, eyes wide with panic.  “Jesus.”

“That’s not…”

Something crashed.  It was a tremendous racket just down the shadowy hallway.  Heavy breathing that was getting closer.  _Oh, God!_   Tony turned, hardly wanting to believe what was happening but knowing beyond any doubt that something _bad_ was down the hall.  He looked at Clint and then Steve, horrified beyond belief.  He grabbed Steve’s arm and pulled him up.  All those bad feelings…   _I should have listened to them!_ “We need to go.  _Go.”_

They ran, Clint taking the lead with the gun and Steve clinging onto Tony.  They didn’t get very far, though.  There was only one way out of the room, back through that long, dark corridor, and they barely made it a few steps into it before Clint skidded to a sudden stop.  Tony grabbed Steve, steadying him as they collided with the backpedaling archer.  “Oh, no,” Tony whimpered.  “No, no, no, no…”

They were staring right into the eyes of a monster.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Warnings for horror-type imagery and gore. Thanks for reading!

There’d been a time during the silo incident when Tony had felt like they were caught in some sort of survival horror video game.  He couldn’t remember if he’d said that or just thought it.  He’d been pretty punch drunk from pain, shock, and fear at the time, traumatized to the point that he’d nearly been giddy, so things weren’t too clear.  But it had been true.  Trapped as they’d been in a dark, hellish nightmare, they’d had to climb.  They’d had to fight for their lives against traps and pitfalls, they’d had to race against _time_ , but they’d never had to battle against anyone or anything.  Zemo had left them there to die, so he’d been long gone.  They’d been utterly alone, clinging to each other in the rust and shadows.  Survival horror.  What were those things you learned in English classes?  The three great conflicts in literature?  The silo had been man versus nature for sure and man versus himself to some extent as well (for him, at least).

This was man versus… _something._   Tony couldn’t even tell what because it moved, and it moved _fast._   “Run!” Clint cried.  The gun went off (that was a small consolation, he supposed, that it fired at all), and bullets ripped wildly into the hallway.  The thing, whatever it was, shrieked.  Tony didn’t know if it was from pain or anger, and he figured he probably shouldn’t care.  They needed to _get the hell out of there._   “Get back!  Get back!”

Tony yanked Steve against him, nearly tripping over his own feet as he did.  Clint pushed them back further into the room, unabashedly stumbling into both of them and driving them away from the monster.  When it moved into the room, Tony finally got a good look at it.  Not that it really mattered.  Not that he could really process what he was seeing.  His brain shut down phenomenally quick, shocked into a pretty senseless stupor, and even though he knew he should be dragging Steve along and running away (or at the very least panicking), he couldn’t do much more than stare.  “Holy shit,” he whispered.

Whatever this thing was, it had probably been a person at some point (or made from a person).  Its shape was generally humanoid, though it was much larger, probably over eight feet tall if it stood straight on its legs.  Its skin was flesh colored though very pale, a nearly translucent white that was again seemingly human though appearing emaciated, and it had a head and arms, a trunk and pelvis.  But the similarities ended there.  A _set_ of black eyes all blinked at the same time, grotesque and vicious.  Tony couldn’t quite count all of them.  It had a jaw, a large one, and a mouth that was open to reveal lines of brown, bloody teeth.  What was particularly disturbing were the tentacle-like appendages coming out of the thing’s back.  There were six of them, long ropes of flesh and muscle that looked viciously strong.  The skin was smooth, without the suckers one normally associated with tentacles, but Tony could see that what was there instead wasn’t much better.  The ends of the arms had bony claws that were clearly meant for hooking, tearing, and killing.  A few even had fresh blood dripping from them.  When the monster moved, huge muscles, the sort that probably crushed men’s skulls without any effort at all, shifted under its skin.  Sinew and tendons contorted along bones, twisting menacingly, and the beast growled.

“What the hell is it?” Clint gasped, pushing back further into Tony and Steve.  He was shaking.  “What the hell, what the hell, what the _hell_ …”

Tony had no answer.  Idly his brain was coming to some conclusions, of course.  Whatever nightmares Zemo had been investigating down in his secret facility, this abomination had clearly been one of them.  It had clearly been made here, designed and created by geneticists, biologists, and chemists.  Who knew the particulars.  Maybe they’d been attempting to breed monsters for HYDRA’s war against the Avengers and the good people of the world.  Maybe this had been crafted on purpose, the first of potentially many such creatures to wreak havoc, murder, and maim.  On the other hand, this could have just as easily been an experiment gone wrong, too, the result of men screwing around with things they didn’t understand.  Bioweapons gone haywire.  Dangerous radiation or toxins or viruses combined (intentionally or otherwise) to manufacture hell.  It didn’t matter how or why.  When the installation had been attacked and the power had fluctuated, whatever fail-safes and security measures they’d had in place to contain their pet had obviously failed, and now it was on the loose.  It had obviously killed everyone.  And it was obviously interested in doing the same to them.

 _Goddamn it all to hell._   “You wanted to know what other stuff they have down here,” he somehow quipped through a tight throat.  It was a minor miracle he could speak at all, given how frozen his mind was with terror and how damn hard it was to breathe with his lungs all seized up inside him.  “Apparently they were making themselves a mascot.”  That was what it was.  He’d read somewhere once that when you scared shitless of something, you should try to picture it as something innocuous, as something silly even.  Like in _Harry Potter_ with that spell.  What was it?  _Riddikulus._   Right.  This thing, with its bald skull head and tentacles, was really just a HYDRA mascot.  A dude in a big, dumb costume, just there to rally the opposing team.

The thing snarled, dripping bloody saliva from incredibly pointy, _real_ canines, and…  Yeah, that wasn’t working.

“What do we do?” Steve gasped from behind him.  He could feel Rogers shaking, the fingers of his good hand curled tight into Tony’s shirt.  Tony sure as shit didn’t know.  No Iron Man.  No weapons.  No serum.  Were there any options?  “What–”

There was no time to even think.  The monster’s eyes flashed with a second of warning before it charged them.  Clint gave a wrangled cry as his injured body failed him, and he stumbled to the side when a tentacle whipped at him and struck him across the chest.  The rest of the beast slammed forward, careening at Tony, and he couldn’t help but scream.  Moving without thinking, he ducked as another tentacle slashed at him.  Steve was crushed beneath him, and the appendage that should have slashed them both hit the examination bed behind them.  It struck with enough force to practically pulverize it.  Keeping Steve safely under him, Tony watched for a second.  That was a mistake.  Another tentacle whizzed over him, and he felt the heat up his back before he felt the pain.

“Tony!” Clint yelled.  The gun was snapping again, a distant sequence of staccato cracks.  The monster roared, tentacles quivering spastically around the two men it had almost killed as bullets riddled its body.  They didn’t do much to hurt it.  They did distract it, though, and with a snap of its jaws and a flail of its tentacles, it went after Clint.

That was horrifying, of course, but Tony was too shocked and in too much pain to do anything more than try to get up.  Steve wriggled out from under him, wheezing quickly.  “Tony, your back–”

“Doesn’t matter!” he returned, though it very much _did_ , because now the agony of his torn skin was hard and harsh upon him, and he could feel where the claw had ripped and lacerated his flesh.  Blood burned as it ran down his flanks, and he just knew had it gone just a hair deeper, it would have severed his spine.  He grimaced, trying not to think about that, and scrambled to his knees.

Across the way, Clint was doing his level best _not_ to get killed.  He had the rifle still, the butt deep into this shoulder as he unloaded the remains of the magazine at the creature.  The shots would have killed probably anything else at this range, but instead they only ripped small chunks of the monster’s flesh clear away, digging ruts and rivets into its skin and enraging it further.  Clint stood still for as long as he could, keeping the thing’s attention while keeping himself alive, and when the gun ran dry, he threw it.  It hit soundly in the monster’s awful face, but that deterred it about as much as the bullets had.  Tentacles lashed out at Clint, and he barely dove out of the way, scrambling across the tiles to the left.  The monster was adamant, though, destroying supply carts and the lab tables in a clatter of broken equipment.  One of the tentacles met its mark the next time it attacked, and Clint cried out as it latched around his leg.  The claw went right into the meat of his calf to anchor itself, and the monster pulled him closer.  “Go!” Clint hollered.  “Run!  Get out of here!”  He struggled wildly, but the tentacle squeezed tighter, digging the claw in deeper with a spurt of red until Clint was wailing and limp on the floor.

 _Do something!_   Tony scrambled to move, but his back on fire with every movement.  Steve, though, was already on his feet and running.  He grabbed a few fallen scalpels on the floor and threw them with amazing accuracy; apparently losing the serum hadn’t diminished his capacity to aim at all.  The blades went into monster’s exposed back, and it roared again.  “Hey!” Steve yelled.  “Let him go!”

“Uh, no,” Tony gasped.  Did someone need to remind him that he wasn’t Captain America anymore?  No muscles?  No strength?  No enhanced healing factor?

That didn’t seem to matter.  “Come on, you son of a bitch!”  Steve flung another scalpel at the creature.  Again, it was nothing more than an irritation, mosquitos buzzing around its ears and uselessly pricking its skin, but it was enough to piss the hell out of it.   _“Come on!”_

“Steve, no–”

The monster was already attacking him.  It didn’t release Clint unfortunately, but with its attention turned the archer was struggling again.  There wasn’t much time to be grateful for that.  Another couple of tentacles snapped at them.  Tony dropped to the floor, desperately seeking cover behind the mangled examination table.  He crawled on his hands and knees, ignoring the fact that the structure was shaking behind him so much that the floor was vibrating.  Steve ducked and ran.  He was smaller and faster than the beast could handle, and every stab of the tentacles after him missed by a hair’s breadth.  Tony watched, heart pounding painfully and eyes wide in terror, as Steve jumped over a toppled cart.  He was surprisingly quick for being so little and so frail, and he was putting that advantage to good use, darting around the room like crazy.  Their adversary snarled its frustration, sweeping wide with its many arms, shattering a few light fixtures above.  That plunged the room into darkness for a moment before a few other lights winked uncertainly to life.  _Not helping,_ Tony thought.  _Not helping.  Not good._ They had to get out of this.  _Think, Stark.  Think, think, think–_

A loud clang interrupted Tony’s panic.  He leaned around the bottom of the table just in time to see Steve bring up a metallic tray, likely one that had held medical instruments, to block an attack like a shield.  He’d seen Steve do things like that before, use other things to protect himself and other people when his shield wasn’t available, and for some reason that was overly inspiring right now.  _Captain America._   His relief at seeing that lasted all of a second when it became obvious that, ad hoc shield notwithstanding, Steve wasn’t capable of fighting the way he was now.  The beast snapped at him, finally letting go of Clint in what seemed to be a tantrum of annoyance to charge across the room.  “Steve!” Tony shouted, fear turning his blood to ice as he helplessly watched the monster bat the tray right out of the soldier’s hands.  With his bad arm, there was no chance he could hold on, so he let it go, dropping to his knees and crawling right between the massively thick trunks of the monster’s thighs.  He did it fast enough that the thing didn’t catch him, instead driving fists through the wall behind him.  “Steve, go!”

Steve went.  There was glass and debris all over the floor, and he ran right through it, cutting his bare feet in his attempt to get away.  And he didn’t make it.  Tony reached for him, flinging himself forward with a desperate cry, but their fingers barely brushed together before the creature had Steve by the ankle.  It yanked him back, trailing blood over the floor, and Steve gave a strangled cry as he was whipped around like a doll.  _Oh, God._   The monster slammed him back onto the floor right beneath its bulk and opened its jaw, biting at Steve’s neck.  _Oh, God!_

Bleeding heavily himself, Clint was already moving.  He swung another tray mightily, smashing it into the creature’s hip.  It did nothing (of course – _goddamn it!_ ) but that didn’t stop Clint from launching himself onto its back.  It was bent lower over Steve, so he was able to make the height, and once he was on there, he was stabbing with something.  Another scalpel.  Tony could only watch, yet again frozen with pain and abject horror, as Clint grappled with this thing.  He wrapped an arm around its neck and yanked it back, cutting with the scalpel, but for its skin looking thin and unsubstantial, it was clearly difficult to pierce.  Clint cried out when the monster reared back, smashing him right into the table behind which Tony was hiding.  Clawed tentacles swiped everywhere, random and furious, and he barely avoided one as he crawled across the debris all over the floor to get to Steve.  Steve was shaking, covered in blood.  It was difficult to tell from where it was coming or how serious it was, but his shoulder looked fairly badly mauled.  Tony grabbed him and dragged him toward the door.

They didn’t get very far.  The monster _threw_ Clint, and he was a blur of blue and red as he tumbled over their heads and hit the floor hard by the opposite wall in front of them.  He yelped again, sliding a good few feet across the tiles before rolling to a stop.  He tried to get up but slumped back down.  _Shit._   And their nemesis attacked them again almost instantly.  Tony gasped in pain as he was swept off his feet.  His ankles were trapped together, a tentacle wrapping around them, and the next thing he knew the world was _upside down_ as he was hauled toward the ceiling.  _Shit!_   His feet slammed into it, and the ceiling tiles broke with a spray of dust and crushed sheetrock.  A light fixture crashed to the floor, dragging its fastenings and wires with it, but it somehow continued to function.  Tony was momentarily blinded by the flickering light before being whipped up again, and the damaged ceiling crumpled.  The apparatus above the already compromised examination bed came down, pulling away from where it had been mounted.  Power cables were split.  Something blasted cold out into the room.  A ruptured tube of some sort dangled from the ceiling, spewing coolant.  Distantly alarms wailed.  The beast growled unhappily, flinching as the freezing cloud of vapor enveloped its huge form.  It shuffled away from the spot, taking Tony with it.

Dizzy and trying not to throw up, Tony gasped and swung helplessly.  It took him a second to focus, and when he did, he saw during all that the monster had grabbed Steve again.  Why not?  He looked small, like easy pickings.  And it was damn well tormenting him.  Tony didn’t know if this thing had the capacity to be vindictive, but it certainly seemed to be playing with its meal (assuming it was going to eat them; as bad as that was, thinking about any other outcome was worse).  He had no doubt it could kill all three of them in a matter of seconds, but apparently slapping them around first and watching them pathetically scramble to protect each other was more entertaining. 

And it was apparently more fun to pin Steve like a mouse under its hideous, shaved cat/octopus hybrid body.  It leaned close, dripping saliva from its gaping maw of a mouth right onto Steve’s cheeks, sniffing him and then freaking _licking_ him with a leathery-looking, massive tongue.  Steve gasped, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face away, trying to stay as still as possible as that disgusting thing laved all over him, as those black eyes glittered with hunger.

Tony wanted to throw up again.  Despite the fact that all of his blood was at the top of his skull (or dripping down from his lacerated back, and he was _not_ going to look at the red splattering on the floor), he wriggled and squirmed and tried to swing himself.  “Hey, you!”  The monster ignored him, lifting him even further away until he could hardly see Steve.  He glanced toward Clint, but the archer was still limp on the floor.  He couldn’t even tell if he was conscious.  Panic pushed him into doing _something_ (talking, because what else could he do strung up upside down like this?  And he was good at that.  Talking.  Pissing people off.  It had worked with Zemo, right?).  “Hey!  _Hey!_ Come on, you sick piece of shit!  Look at me!”  Nothing.  As if in a warning, the tentacle around his ankles tightened, grinding his bones together.  He grimaced in pain but didn’t stop.  “You don’t want to eat him.  I mean, look at him.  He’s hardly worth the effort.  There’s no meat on them bones.  He’s like a really crappy hors d’oeuvres.  Really crappy.  Seriously.  Tough as all hell too, I bet.  Stringy.”

“Tony…” Steve gasped.  He struggled uselessly, but all that won him was the best’s human-like hand (well, except for the long, curled claws on each digit) jutting down to wrap around his neck.  He choked, grabbing at it with his own hands and bucking weakly.

Tony’s heart pulsed with panic.  One twist and that thing would snap Steve’s neck.  “You look like something out of _Resident Evil_ , only uglier.  What are you, huh?  Whatever they made you from, they didn’t do you any favors.  You hit every branch on the way down the f-ugly tree, let me tell you.  Bug-eyed, nasty as hell, bald, no concept of dental hygiene – dude, keep those tentacle things to yourself!”  The monster didn’t listen, naturally, running one its claws across his chest and ripping his shirt and the skin beneath it.  Tony gasped in pain but went on because at least he’d gotten its attention.  “Yeah, you bastard, come on!”

That was successful (if success could be called getting the thing to stop abusing Steve and start abusing him).  It leaned away from Steve, strangling him still as it came to sniff the blood dripping down the floor from Tony’s back.  _Oh, God._   “Sampling different vintages?” he queried, trying not to sound as absolutely petrified as he felt.  “His was probably better before your creators sucked him dry of all the super juice.  But I’ve got fatty brains, awesome brains, really, that you won’t get anywhere else, so _come on._ ”

“Tony!” Steve sputtered.  “Tony, stop!”

What difference did it make?  This was hardly accomplishing anything, each of them trying in vain to shift their enemy’s attention away from one another like _any_ of them could actually fight it.  Tony squirmed again, reaching in vain for something, _anything_ , to use as a weapon.  The thing honest to God _smiled_ at him and shook him playfully, violently, like it was trying to jostle something loose.  His position was already unpleasant, and this added handling made blackness blot the edges of his vision.  His brain felt like it was being battered into oblivion, and bile burned the back of his loosening throat.  His heart was pounding in his ears.  The torture went on for forever, it seemed, his shirt hanging down by his face, sucked into his mouth by his desperate gasping, choking him.  Blood was dripping and dripping.

Then something _was_ jostled loose.  It must have fallen from the waistband of his scrubs.  Everything back there was a stretch of suffering skin and muscle, agonized to the point of feeling numb, so he didn’t notice at first.  The item getting caught in his shirt and dragging it down further was what got his attention.  The creature’s tongue slid over the huge cut on his back, and Tony wailed in agony.  Breathing was too hard and thinking was harder, and he flailed uselessly without leverage or purchase, trying and trying to get away.  The item stuck in his shirt, whatever it was, was slipping out.  Nothing felt right, not as dizzy and disoriented as he was, not in this much pain and struck with such terror, but he managed to will his leaden fingers to function.  He reached behind him just in time to catch it.  His thumb slid over something smooth – _a blaster_ – and awareness arced through his brain like lightning.

The creature leaned closer and opened its mouth to bite him.  “Pucker up, asshole,” he gasped, and he thumbed the switch of the laser scalpel and shoved it in between its jaws.  The amped up laser cut right through the thing’s tongue, sending the writhing rope of it to the floor.  The creature wailed, rearing back, shuddering violently.  Suddenly Tony was failing, his arm catching on razor-sharp teeth as he plummeted.  He hit the floor hard, barely twisting to avoid breaking his neck.  Over him, the beast screamed, vomiting blood all over, and Tony scrambled away.  Steve was there, freed as well, and he pulled him back.  “Holy hell,” he breathed.

The monster screamed again, its tentacles hugging its hunched form to create almost a protective cocoon.  In the haphazardly flashing lights, it was disgusting, a gory, grotesque scene straight out of a horror movie.  Tony scrambled back, his sneakers squelching across the floor.  Clint was suddenly behind them, too, grabbing Tony’s arm and steadying him.  The archer was even more bruised, even paler, and his eyes were wide with fear.  “I think you pissed it off,” he whispered.

The next roar shook the room.  The thing charged forward, tentacles taut and twitching.  Steve staggered to his feet, his good hand like steel around Tony’s wrist and pulling.  While they backed up, Clint surged forward.  “Clint!” the soldier cried.  “What are you–”

It didn’t seem possible that Clint could move this fast as injured as he was, but he did.  He jumped up onto the mangled remains of the examination table, and for a second Tony thought he must have hit his head hard enough to scramble his brains.  “Clint, what – no!”  It became obvious what Clint was doing a breath later.  He leapt with shocking grace, grabbing at that tube that was venting freezing coolant.  With one hand on the debris still half attached to the ceiling and the other yanking on the pipe, he swung forward, kicking with his legs.  Boldly he collided with the monster, freezing gas and liquid spraying everywhere as he jabbed the tube into the beast’s belly.  Tony gasped, and he and Steve backpedaled further.  They couldn’t quite see what was happening, but there was a struggle, and the creature yowled again.  And, _again_ , Clint went flying.  This time he collided with Steve and Tony, obviously tossed head over heels, and he struck hard.   All three men went down in a mess of tangled limbs.  Alarms wailed louder, and the room seemed to shudder as the monster struggled.  Tentacles shot out of the frigid, white cloud.  Then they slumped back inside, going completely limp.  Beneath the cover of the fog, everything became eerily still.

Tony gasped a sob of relief.  He stared at the mess of coolant spilling into the air and on the floor, stared and prayed, but after a few long, still moments, it seemed like it was over.  He clambered back to his feet, his efforts sloppy and rubbing his head where Clint’s elbow (or knee – he wasn’t sure which) had hit him.  It seemed a minor ailment compared to his back and arm and _God, that’s a lot of blood_ …  A great deal of it was coming from him, but he could see as he untangled himself from the other two that Clint’s leg was ripped badly and gushing.  That seemed to be his only flesh wound (his only new one, anyway), but there was no doubt that all of his internal injuries had been exacerbated.  He was coughing, red coating his hand, and stumbling back.  And Steve.  The soldier groaned, and now that Tony had a second to really look, he had a damn _chunk_ ripped out of the ball of his right shoulder.  _Christ._   His neck was purple, there were claw marks down his chest and across his thighs, and his feet were a torn mess.  But he was still standing.  He was still alive.  Somehow they all were.

But they might not be for long, it seemed.  “Guys,” Steve whispered, wheezing and watching with wide eyes.  Tony turned around and stared at the vapors again.  The shadows dancing around and inside of it resembled demons, tricking his mind into perceiving motion.  It wasn’t a trick, he realized after what looked like a snake slithered inside the fog.  _No._   There was another inhuman growl, one filled with pain and frustration.  _Oh, no._   More movement.  A shadow rising from the floor.  _It’s not over._

Enraged, the creature howled as it emerged from the coolant.  Its tentacles were writhing, its muscles were clenched, its skin was frozen and burned with frostbite, and its eyes were wild with _hate_.  Tony could only stare, his hopes dying a quick, vicious death.  “I think you pissed it off more,” he whispered.

“You think?” Clint gasped.  _“Run!”_

They ran.  Sort of.  It was mostly limping and struggling and barely staying upright with how hurt they were now.  They clung to each other, panting, fighting for every step and breath, as they staggered down the hallway.  Tony curled his hand into Clint’s scrubs, and Steve’s fingers were tight around his wrist.  _Don’t let go._   If one of them fell, they all would.  _Don’t let go!_

Somehow they reached the end of the hallway.  There was no time to think, not with the beast stampeding behind them, not with its tentacles shooting after them with their long reach.  Clint pulled them left.  The drywall across the way exploded, showering them in dust and debris as they skidded sharply.  “Go!” the archer cried, although how he could get the breath to speak was beyond Tony.  “Go, go, go!”

Down the corridor they thundered.  It was a precarious balancing act, a chaotic rush of panicked hearts and battered bodies.  The monster was giving chase, tearing everything around them apart as it did.  “Go right!” Tony cried when they reached another intersection.  Desperately he tried to focus, tried to bring up the image of the map he’d studied minutes before in the infirmary.  They needed to get out of here, go back to the installation’s main section, at least find someplace with weapons.  They needed to do _something._   This place was like a damn maze, and there was no way they could outrun anything like this.  And hiding was definitely not an option.  Even if they could put enough distance between them and their friend to conceivably slip away, they were leaving a very noticeable trail of blood.  They had to get out!  “Right again!”

“Stark!” Clint cried in horror, pulling Steve closer.

“I know!”  Sharply they turned right, and Tony prayed to God he was remembering correctly.  This wasn’t the way they’d come; he was hoping this would lead them out faster, but it was all guesswork, and his memory might not be the best right now considering he could hardly think for the fear cascading over him and the pain threatening to shut him down.  They burst into another research room, this one large and spacious.  It was full of rows of long lab benches, each teeming with computers, microscopes, pipettes, vials, and other equipment.  Everything was white or sleek silver and surprisingly undamaged.  Its pristine state lasted all of a moment.  The beast tore in after them, destroying everything in its path like a raging bull barreling uncontrolled through a china shop.  Tony pulled Steve down, tucking his head to his chest as one of the tentacles whizzed by just barely over their heads.  It smashed into cabinets full of liquids.  There was no time to be worried about what those things were that now dripped all over the floor and were splattered everywhere, what chemicals to which they’d been exposed.  It was all water under the bridge (or poison all over everything and in the air) because they had to keep running.  They tore through the lab, dodging debris and attacks, desperately trying to stay ahead.  Every step was precarious, frantic, and terrified.  Glass rained down on them as the tentacles surged forth again, and Clint nearly slipped, but Steve had too tight a grip on his arm for him to fall.  It was a minor miracle they reached the other side of the room.

Bursting out into the adjacent corridor, they skidded and rammed into the wall.  Tony gasped, pain flowering up and down his damaged back as he hit roughly.  And Steve went down completely.  He seemed to be on the verge of collapse.  Everything else aside, Tony could see there was glass in his feet.  Running on that was probably torture, but there was no choice and no time.  “Come on!”  He ignored the torture he himself was enduring and grabbed Steve’s arm, hauling him up.  “Come on!  Come on!”

These few seconds spent flailing proved costly.  One of the tentacles shot through the open door and wrapped around Clint’s midsection.  The archer howled, the claw raking down his flank and seeking deeper purchase in his flesh as the monster yanked him back.  “Clint!” Tony screamed.  A single thought flashed through his head – _everything rebooted!_ – and he slammed his palm onto the door controls adjacent to the open portal.  The doors immediately began to close with a hydraulic hiss, trying to seal the beast on one side and them on the other.  The tentacle was in the way, and it dragged Clint back into the door.  He cried out, struggling wildly to no avail.  “Shit, shit, shit…”  Tony jabbed his thumb into the controls again, like pushing the button harder could make the door close (it couldn’t).  Giving up on that stupidity, he held onto Clint as much as possible and tried to push it shut.  The monster was right on the other side, bleeding and panting, slamming into the door and wall with enough force to shake everything.  “Close, goddamn it!  _Close!_ ”

“Stark!” Clint gasped.  “Just go!”

 _“No!”_   Tony gave up on trying to move the door and instead pulled on the tentacle with everything he had, getting both his hands around the slimy thing about Clint’s belly and snarling with effort.  Even the two of them working together weren’t strong enough to dislodge it.  And the damn door wasn’t strong enough to crush it or sever it.  “Come on!”

“Get out of the way!”  Steve’s shout made Tony jerk in alarm, and he glanced down the hallway to see the smaller man hobbling toward them with a goddamn _axe._   _Holy shit._   It must have come from an emergency supply kit somewhere because the handle was bright red and the blade was sharp, shining, and unused.  Tony looped an arm around Clint’s shoulders and pulling him tight to his own body to create some distance between the archer and the door.  That exposed a few inches of the tentacle, and Steve gave a cry, swinging the axe down.  Even without super strength behind it, the edge cut deep.  Another deep, vibrating howl echoed through the lab and the hallway, but that didn’t deter Steve.  He hit again, harder still, exposing blood and flesh and bone.  The tentacle jerked, loosening from Clint enough that he could finally wriggle free.  The limb was still stuck between the door and its frame, though, pinned by the hydraulics.  A third strike hacked it clean off.

Tony looked away from the severed piece falling to the floor at their feet.  The door slid the rest of the way shut and sealed.

Steve nearly dropped the axe.  He looked as awful as Tony felt, but he somehow managed a wry smile.  “Fun times, right?” he gasped despite being hardly able to catch his breath.  _Survival horror._   Tony grunted a giddy laugh despite it all, grasping Clint’s shoulder where the other man was doubled over and wheezing in pain and relief and hugging Steve tight.

On the other side of the door, the monster snarled and charged.  It hit with a clang, one that rattled the bulkhead and the corridor.  Everything held, but it probably wouldn’t for long.  The three friends shared horrified looks.  “Let’s go,” Clint said, taking the axe from Steve and leading them quickly down the hallway.  The monster wasn’t quiet about its attempts to break through the wall.  Eventually it would realize there was another way out (back the way they’d come), so there was no time to stop or even slow down despite how exhausted and hurt they were.  Through the maze of the lab they went, hardly pausing to be certain they were going the right way.  Tony struggled to think; they were relying on him to get this right, and he _had_ to get it right.  Had to.  “Stark?”

“This way,” he said, not sure.  The howls of the beast were quieter, muffled with the distance now.  Tony looked left and then right and then left again.  He felt lightheaded and sick.  Vaguely he worried about blood loss.  Vaguely.  _Nothing I can do._ The image of the map was fuzzy and he was having a hard time figuring out where they were on it now.  _It’s left._   “Yeah, this way.”

They went that way.  Ahead there was another larger lab – _this is right_ – that would lead back to the main area and the entrance.  Tony fought to swallow down a euphoric cheer as they ran inside.

A second later, he found himself fighting to swallow down the urge to throw up.  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Clint moaned, averting his eyes from the horrific sight around them.  Steve did the same, his blunt nails darts of pain in the meat of Tony’s forearm as he ripped around, gagging.

Tony caught a glance of it all before he realized he shouldn’t look.  Lab equipment.  A glass cage in the corner where this thing had probably lived, one of the walls smashed to bits and alarms moaning uselessly.  Red everywhere.  _Blood_ , his brain supplied.  The bodies that had been taken.  Pieces of people.  The smell was overwhelming.  He shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut tight.  _My God._   “Sorry I led us into this thing’s lair,” he moaned, “where it’s obviously stockpiling its kills.”  _Like a freaking squirrel gathering nuts for the winter._ “I suck.”

“You don’t suck,” Steve whimpered.  He shuddered, absolutely _white,_ obviously trying to ground himself enough to turn around again.  “I hate HYDRA.  I try not to, you know?  My mother always said it was wrong to hate.  There’s good in everyone.”  He sighed shakily.  “But I really, _really_ hate HYDRA.”

“We won’t stop you, Cap,” Tony said.  “By all means, hate away.”

“I second that,” Clint muttered.  “Why the hell did they have this freaking thing caged so close to the door?”

“They’re goddamn morons,” Tony supplied.  He wasn’t going to look.  And he wasn’t going to be sick.  At all.  No, sir.  “Let’s just…”

A feminine voice suddenly blared through the room.  Her tone was that damn calm one they always used to deliver really bad news.  It came in German first, and Tony was about to ask Steve to translate when it was repeated in English.  “Warning: biohazard containment breach.  Containment systems are offline.  Evacuation mandatory.”

_The containment systems._

All those doors in the hallway through which they’d gone on the way into this place.  Whatever other containment protocols were in place.  They’d all been disabled during the attack because of the power outage, but _the computer system had rebooted._   If he could get to them…  “We need to go,” he breathed, his mind racing.  He focused on the other two Avengers.  “Get me to the front rooms.  Find me a computer there that’s working.  I can–”

From not so far away, the beast yowled its irritation.  It was coming.  “Go,” Clint gasped.

They ran through the hellish, gory nightmare, eyes on their feet and hearts racing in panic.  The hall beyond was completely trashed, and there were puddles of blood all over.  Dodging that was an unneeded complication.  “I have to say,” Tony huffed as he helped steady Steve, “that this is the last time we are ever doing anything together.  I love you guys, but this royally sucks.  The bromance is awesome, but the baggage that comes with it is terrible.  I want a divorce.”  No one laughed.  On the contrary, Steve heaved a pained cry and slipped.  He went down hard onto his knees.  He was done.  He’d been done minutes ago, and these were his reserves that were now burned away.  The ever-present wheezing was threatening to escalate into another asthma attack, and the medicine was back where they’d dropped it, useless and inaccessible.  “Barton!”

Clint tossed Tony the axe.  It was probably humiliating for him, but Steve was too spent and beat up to so much as grumble as Clint literally swept him off his feet.  The archer carried him bridal style, dodging the slippery mess all over the hallways.  As much as it hurt to admit, they were moving faster with Steve out of the equation.  Still, faster wasn’t fast enough, and the clamor behind them got louder and louder.  “Christ, doesn’t this thing give up?”

Tony couldn’t think of a witty rejoinder.  There wasn’t one.  The damn thing _wouldn’t_ give up until their bodies were among the horde in its nest, as dead as all the others.  So escape was the only option, and this had to work.  “Keep going!” he gasped, and they forced all the speed they could from themselves.

 _Thank God._   They burst into the main room once more, and the sense of triumph was so strong that it felt like they’d climbed Everest.  They weren’t out of the woods yet, though, not even with the long corridor right there in front of them that led back into the main installation.  They couldn’t outrun this thing forever.  No, they were at the top of the mountain, and now they had to make it down the other side somehow in one piece.

Clint deposited Steve by one of the consoles where the computers were mostly intact.  Rogers was red in the face, wheezing still, and a mess of bruises and blood.  Clint was about to speak when something down the hall where they’d been a few seconds before was loudly smashed.  “Whatever you’re going to do, do it fast,” he said instead, taking the axe from Tony anew.

Tony was already sliding into one of the rolling chairs amidst all the disaster, pulling himself up to the desk.  The computers were working, restored by the reboot and sitting at the same command prompt he’d hacked earlier.  He linked his bloody hands together, cracking his knuckles dramatically before going to work.  His deft fingers flew over the keyboard, his mind racing through the sequence of steps to break into the system.  A breath later, it was unlocked.  A flurry of status reports appeared all over the displays, a mixture of English and German.  “Steve, help me.  Read all this crap.”

Steve drew himself closer, blinking rapidly like he couldn’t focus.  He did, at least enough to find what they needed.  “There.  Emergency systems.”  He pointed a slick, red finger at the screen, leaving a smudge of blood.  Tony clicked on the icon to open the program.  A new series of messages and images spread over the screen.  One was a map of the laboratory section.  As Tony had hoped and guessed from what he’d seen before, the place was meant to be sealed off in the event of a biocontainment breach.  Depending on the severity of the emergency, the area would close, internal explosives would incinerate the entirety of it, and it would detach from the main installation and flood.  Tony didn’t know enough about biohazard protection protocols to know if that was sufficient to contain all conceivable types of exposure, but he was pretty damn sure that would contain this one.  “Tony, we need to–”

“On it.”  He was already typing, bringing the containment systems back online one at the time, resetting and reinitializing everything.  Clint watched anxiously, too riled to stand still.  The cacophony the beast was making as it searched for them was terrifying, shaking the floor beneath them, a menace ominously thundering closer.  His hand tightened on the shaft of the axe until his knuckles were white.  Tony tried to calm his pounding heart so he could think as he activated things one at a time.  “Almost there.”

“Get there,” Clint pleaded lowly.  “Now.”

“Working on it!”

“There’s no time!”

“I know!”

“Tony!”

Suddenly the monster was there, bursting inside the room.  It was even more hideous now than it had been before, now that it was covered in blood.  Its face damaged and maimed both by cold and heat, the stump of the one injured tentacle dripping.  And it was angrier.  Its array of eyes shone furiously, settling on the three Avengers.

 _No, no, no!_   Tony panicked, typing faster, racing through the final steps.  It wasn’t quick enough.  With another roar, the thing launched itself at them, smashing everything in its way.  If it took out the computers…  “Back off, you bastard!” Clint hollered, and he was running toward it because he was _certifiably insane_ , axe whizzing through the air.  He slashed at the monster, and it actually backed up, maybe recalling what had happened to it a few seconds before with enough fear to make it hesitate.  Clint didn’t let up, not even for a second, advancing with the weapon driving.  “Get away!  Get away!”

Finally the system came back online.  “Biohazard containment systems engaged,” that sweet, pleasant voice declared.  “Containment in five minutes.  Evacuation is mandatory.”  The computer repeated that warning in German, and a counter suddenly appeared in red on all of the monitors.  Tony didn’t know whether to thank their lucky stars or pray for salvation.  He did both.  And then he dropped to the floor when a tentacle swiped at him, grabbing Steve’s arm and yanking him down with him.  He could hear Clint fighting, _losing_ , and he scrambled on his hands and knees through the wreckage to get around the console and help.

Snarling teeth greeted him.  “Shit!” he gasped, recoiling and crawling the other way.  “Steve, stay down!”  Steve rolled under the desk, but it was too late.  The monster slammed its massive foot into the console, crushing it inward and Steve beneath it.  Tony reached to help him, but he was violently yanked away.  The beast curled its clawed hand around his foot and threw him across the room.  Everything spun nauseatingly until he landed in a heap against a wall, glass shattering around him.  Tony choked soundlessly, his back locked in an agonizing spasm as the wound was aggravated, and he lay limply curled on his side, struggling to breathe.  Seconds floated away.  Seconds they needed to escape, otherwise they’d die, too.  He couldn’t hold onto them.  He couldn’t–

“Get Steve out!” Clint demanded hoarsely, and somehow he was moving again and doing so rapidly and lithely.  He threw the axe with expert precision, and it ended up embedded deeply into the monster’s chest.  Even that didn’t stop it, but it wasn’t meant to.  The archer was sliding on the slick floor between the thing’s massive legs as it momentarily flailed.  He rolled out the other side, and for an awful minute Tony feared Clint was sacrificing himself.  _Killing_ himself, running _back_ inside and luring the nightmare with him so that Tony and Steve could escape.  But he wasn’t.  He’d spotted another one of those tubes, the some sort that had carried the coolant into the room where Zemo had stolen the super soldier serum, and he sprinted toward that.  The monster darted after him, raging, and it sent one of its tentacles right at Clint’s back.  Awestruck, Tony mindlessly observed as Clint waited until absolute last second, until the pointed end of that clawed appendage was nearly stabbing into his back.  Then he dropped to the floor, and it stabbed into the pipe instead.

The thing positively wailed.  Coolant sprayed everywhere, gas and liquid alike.

“Three minutes until containment.  Evacuation is mandatory.”

It was impossible to see if Clint was alive in the flailing, screaming mess.  Impossible and there was no time to try.  Tony limped back across the room to where Steve was struggling to get out from under the crumpled desk.  He was gasping and mostly pinned.  Frantically, Tony grabbed the console and pulled up with everything he had left.  It wasn’t much.  _Every part of him_ _hurt_ , from his back to his arms and hands to his feet to his head.  Steve pushed upward, but his efforts were about as pitiable.  “Together,” Tony said, trying not to panic.  “Three.  Two.  One!”  Tony pulled.  Steve pushed.  The mangled top of the console budged upward just enough that Steve was able to slide under.  Had he had his serum-enhanced physique, he would have never been able to fit through that narrow gap.  Of course, had he had his serum-enhanced physique, he would have been able to lift the console clean away and probably kick the ass of the demon after them.  And there was no time to really consider what-ifs at this point.  Tony pulled Steve up, and they hobbled to the entrance, where the doors had been partially closed before.  With the power restored and the system rebooted, they were wide open.

And there the two of them stopped and waited.  The doors behind them were fully functional now, and control panels bright with power flashed warnings that they were closing in a matter of seconds.  The temperature was dropping rapidly as coolant flooded the room, rushing out into the hallway.  Alarms were wailing.  “Clint!” Tony screamed over the din, searching the miasma.  _God, no!_ “Clint!”

“One minute until containment.  Evacuate now.”

“We can’t leave him!” Steve snapped, as if Tony was suggesting that.  His eyes were huge with terror.  _“Clint!”_

There was nothing.  Nothing but the counter going down.  Nothing but the cloud of icy coolant reaching out to them with ghostly fingers, seeking to grasp them, ensnare them, and drag them back to their fate.  Tony glanced at the timer.  Forty-five seconds.  Still there was nothing.  Thirty.  Steve staggered to the wall, standing in the way of the door like he could possibly stop it.  The control panel flashed beside him, a red button that was disabled and a green one that would allow them to close the doors early.  Like that mattered.  They wouldn’t leave without Clint.  _Come on, Barton,_ Tony thought desperately, staring at the jets of vapor rushing at them.  _Come on, come on, come on._   Fifteen seconds.  _“Come on!”_

Suddenly Clint was there.  He burst through the mist, desperation all over his face, sweat frozen on his skin and hair stiff with frost.  His eyes were panicked, and he was jumping.  He slammed into Tony, sending them both sliding back into the hall.  And he wasn’t alone, of course.  Their buddy was right there, obviously still stuck inside but its tentacles were wildly reaching through the portal to grab at them.  A final vindictive attempt to bring them down.  Tony’s heart was jacked, pounding in his throat, as he gathered Clint against him and kicked and rolled and fought to get away.  “Steve, close it!  Close it now!”

“How?” Steve gasped.  “How?”

“Green button!”

Steve floundered a split second, hand darting in between the buttons uncertainly.  “Which one?” he cried, horrified and flustered.  “Which one?”

Tony wailed as his ankle was snatched again.  Clint pulled him the other way, refusing to let go.  He was stretched, joints popping and skin burning.  His back throbbed and his spine ached and he wanted to scream.  “The _green_ one!” Clint bellowed.  “Green!”

“I can’t tell!” Steve snapped.  One of the tentacles smacked him across the back and he fell.

 _No!_    _“The left one!”_

Steve reached up from the floor, his long, thin fingers shaking, but somehow he managed to jab them onto the left touch pad.  The doors immediately quickly shut.  They were huge, slabs of powerful metal, airtight and watertight, so when they slammed into the tentacles, they crushed them.  The monster screamed and ear-piercing shriek, writhing and flailing in the mists beyond, as its limbs were unceremoniously severed.  The one around Tony went limp just as the doors thudded together with a loud, damning rumble.  Another door, this one even thicker, descended in front of it, and everything was quiet.

They were alive.  _They were alive._   That was almost too much to comprehend and definitely too much to believe.  Tony leaned up from Clint’s embrace, panting shallowly, tingling with that crazy rush of having survived something that should have killed him (it disturbed him, frankly, that he’d felt that rush enough in his life to recognize what it was).  As sensation returned, he realized something wet, cold, and slimy was touching his ankle through his torn jeans and sock, and he kicked it away.  The severed chunk of tentacle hit the door with a soft squish.  “Gross.”

Clint laughed at the understatement.  “Holy mother of God,” he breathed giddily.  “Are we alive?”

“Apparently,” Tony murmured.  He turned to the shadows to the right.  “Steve?  You okay?”

Steve coughed and slumped onto his side.  He reached his good hand (well, his less hurt hand) to Clint, fisting the scrubs with trembling fingers in lieu of actually answering.  Tony took that for confirmation.  _Beggars can’t be choosers._   Clint grabbed his arm and gently pulled him closer until the three of them were huddled together, trembling as much as they were breathing.

There was a series of thuds and rumbles.  The woman’s voice suddenly returned.  “Inner door seal complete.  Secondary seal in one minute.  Evacuation is mandatory.”

Screw taking a breather.  “Up,” Clint gasped, barely climbing to his feet himself.  “Up.”

“And onward,” Tony added, taking the archer’s outstretched hand and rising.  Everything hurt.  _Everything._   But they got themselves standing, pulling Steve between them.  He was nearly unconscious, as if the adrenaline of before had been the only thing keeping him going.  There was no time to worry right now.  _Go._

They hobbled down the hall.  Each step was slow, excruciating, and they were in far worse shape coming out of the lab than they had been going in.  But they made it, watching as the doors closed and sealed behind them one after another.  It was like an earthquake then, the distance sounds of explosions, of the emergency systems burning everything away.  Water was leaking inside the corridor as the installation shuddered.  It dripped over them, washing away blood and worse.  “Detachment complete,” the computer declared after a few long minutes.  “Warning: structural integrity of adjacent sections is failing.  Evacuation is mandatory.”

“Let’s evacuate then,” Tony grumbled.  Before they could, though, Steve’s eyes rolled back into his head.  His breath locked up in his chest.  His arms just slid from their grips, and he folded into himself, collapsing into a puddle of water on the cold ground.  “Steve!  Steve!”

Terror prickled through Tony anew, different from the hell of the minutes before but no less devastating.  Ignoring his own hurts, he knelt beside the fallen soldier.  _Too much,_ his mind supplied.  _Too much.  Too much for him.  Too much!_   He gathered Steve’s skinny form in his arms as much as possible, trying to offer warmth and protection.  “Steve, no!  Steve!”

Clint felt for a pulse.  Then he lowered his bloodied ear down to Steve’s equally bloodied chest.  Tony watched, unable to do anything other than pray.  “He’s breathing, thank God,” Barton announced.  _Thank God!_   “He just passed out.”

“We need to get out of here.  We need to–”

There was the very distinctive sound of boots thundering on the floor.  They were splashing through water as they ran closer.  Before Tony could even process that, there was the even _more_ distinctive sound of guns being readied.  Clint’s eyes widened as he watched over Tony’s shoulder.  The color drained from his face.  “Damn,” he whispered.

Cradling Steve still, Tony made himself turn around.  _Oh, no.  No, no, no._  Baron von Strucker and a dozen HYDRA soldiers surrounded them, rifles at the ready.  And Strucker, the bastard, _smiled._

_Out of the frying pan and into the fire._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Just… warnings :-/. It's me, so it's gonna be okay, but… brace yourselves.

Steve was wrong.  “Hate” was not strong enough to describe how Tony felt about HYDRA right now.  As he knelt in the water, arms held behind his back, face aching from the last punch to his jaw, he tried to find a better word to express just how he felt.  Of course, his brain hurt so much that it was damn hard to think.  It had hurt before from the drugs when they’d been abducted and the beating he’d taken, from the hell of trying to escape the first room they’d been in and the flooding section after that, and then, of course, from all the fun they’d had but a few minutes ago with their “friend” back in the lab.  But now, with Thug A pummeling him while Thugs B and C held him steady for the fun…  Well, it was a miracle he was still conscious.  And it was even more remarkable that his mind was going, despite his diminished capacity.  Going and going.  _Got to be a better word.  Despise?  Abhor?  Detest?  Nah, those are all the same.  Since when have I turned into a goddamn thesaurus…_

“Warning: structural integrity compromised.  Evacuation is suggested.”  The computer kept saying that.  No one seemed to be listening.  Not Thugs A-C.

And definitely not Strucker.  “Where is it, Stark?”  The baron leaned close, his finely boned face unshaven, his hair so closely cropped the sweat on his scalp was glistening in the poor light.  His monocle also caught the flickering illumination, making him look (not at all shockingly) like a Bond villain.  _Blofeld.  That guy was ridiculously over the top.  He got a cat tucked in that uniform some place?_   “Where is it?”

Tony swallowed the blood in his mouth and made himself focus.  “You do know this place is flooding, right?” he managed.  That earned him another blow across the face.  Over the pounding of his pulse against his skull, he heard Clint yelling.  God, he didn’t think they could take much more.  Injuries were compounding upon injuries at this point.  His back was burning.  He could feel blood running down into his pants from where his skin was sliced deep.  Clint’s leg was in bad shape (which meant it sadly matched the rest of him), but he kept struggling even though they were seriously outnumbered, outgunned, and practically falling apart at the seams.  Tony had to hand it to him.  Giving up seemed like a good idea, particularly with Steve barely conscious, held up by more of Strucker’s men.  One had a knife to his neck because apparently the dozens of rifles and handguns on them weren’t quite threatening enough.  They yanked Steve by the hair, pulling his head back to expose the vulnerable, bruised flesh of his throat to the blade.  Steve’s eyes were forced to the dripping shadows above, water splattering in his face.  Even if he’d been well enough and aware enough to fight, there was no way he could escape them the way he was now.

To the point of what Strucker wanted.  Thug A wrenched Tony’s battered face back so that Strucker could question him further.  The HYDRA baron practically snarled, his patience obviously worn thin.  “It’s quite obvious from your captain’s sad and pathetic state that Zemo’s efforts were a success.  I want to know where the serum is.”

“Your asshole of a comrade took it.  Maybe you should ask him.”  Another blow, this one jarring.  Tony’s molars clacked together hard enough that for a moment he actually feared he’d bitten off his tongue.  He spat, blood mixing with the water all around them.  “Frankly it wasn’t my turn to watch him.”  He wondered again if it would be a good time to give up.  Antagonizing Strucker wasn’t going to get them anything but a slower, more painful death.  At this point, meeting their ends mercifully was probably the best they could hope for.  There wasn’t going to be an escape.  This place was too damaged to protect them from the frigid, crushing depths of the ocean.  They were beat to hell and beyond.  Zemo had the serum, and Steve wasn’t Captain America anymore.  No Iron Man.  No weapons.  No nothing.  This was going to be it.

Strucker seemed to realize that.  He practically growled.  “Even like this, you still defy.  You still talk back.  Have you no sense of self-preservation?”

 _No._   Tony gathered himself with a breath, spitting another mouthful of blood.  To hell with surrender.  “Hey, I’m not the one wasting valuable time we could be using to escape with an impromptu torture session.  But, then, you’re about as vindictive and stupid as Zemo is, aren’t you?”  Strucker’s hackles practically rose before their eyes.  Of course they would.  Tony was unabashedly pushing his buttons.  The rivalry between the two HYDRA barons was no secret.  That was why Strucker was here, after all, why he was kicking the shit out of the three already brutalized Avengers with this damn place imploding and flooding all around them.  He wanted to beat Zemo and collect their precious super soldier serum.  “You two are jealous assholes.  Two sides of the same coin.”

“Tony,” Clint warned.  Tony glanced to the archer and found him shaking his head.  What was the point?  What the hell was the point now?

Steve whimpered.  Right.  The point.  There it was, right at Steve’s jugular, piercing his skin just enough to send a thin trail of red down the white column of neck.  His throat was so skinny Tony could actually see the big veins pulsing in it.  This was the point.  Keeping Steve safe.  He couldn’t take the hits, couldn’t fight, so Tony and Clint had to.  Clint already had, so it was Tony’s turn.  _That_ was the point.  He sniffled, trying to gather himself.  “Look, we don’t know.  You can beat the crap out of us, but it won’t help.  There’s nothing we can tell you.”

“Is that an invitation?” Strucker seethed.

“It’s the goddamn _truth,_ is what it is.”  Tony sighed irately, squirming uselessly against the men restraining him and using him as their own personal punching bag.  “This is a new low.  _Really._   You’re asking the prisoners of your frenemy what happened to the serum that he stole.  You have to realize we don’t have a freaking clue.  Why the hell would _we_ know?”

“Where is Zemo?” Strucker demanded again, whirling to appraise all three Avengers with flashing eyes.  “Surely he wouldn’t simply leave you like this.  Where did he go, Stark?  _Where?_ ”

“I told you.  He bolted like the chicken shit he is,” Tony snapped.  Strucker glowered, not pleased with the answer at all.  And why would he be?  If Tony had his arms free, he would have thrown them up in exasperated helplessness.  As it was, he shrugged as much as he could.  “What do you want me to say?  He’s gone.”  That sure seemed to be the case if Strucker was here, hunting uselessly for his peer.  That escape pod-looking thing Tony and Clint had seen on the installation’s diagram had probably taken Zemo to safety, to the surface or who knew where with that vial of Steve’s serum tucked in his coat.  With his goddamn prize.  Strucker had come for Erskine’s formula, and Zemo had already taken off with it, leaving his prisoners to die and his men to hold off the invaders.  Leaving this place to flood.  _Goddamn HYDRA rat bastards._   “He scrammed.  Blew this popsicle stand.  Vanished.  Vamoosed.  He’ll send a postcard.”

“You’re lying, Stark!”

“Why _the hell_ would I lie?” he snapped, his voice getting more and more strained with emotion.  “To protect Zemo?  Look at what he did to us!  He–”  Tony made himself stop, glancing again at Steve.  _Look at what he did to Captain America._ That made so much anger and grief twist up inside him.  Despite how desperate their situation was, their wounds, the ordeal through which they’d just been, the computer whining about the installation’s imminent demise…  He couldn’t stand how much it _hurt._   “You bastards.  You guys are ridiculous.  Don’t you get it, Strucker?  He stole the serum.  He got to it first.  And he’s gone.  He’s gone and he took the serum with him.”

If that got Strucker to dump them and continue on in his quest, he’d be all for it.  He’d rather die trying to escape than on his knees in front of these assholes.  Strucker stared at him, grinding his teeth like he was vacillating between trying to gauge the validity of Tony’s assertions and just pummeling the crap out of him.  The latter won.  Clint started shouting again, but Tony couldn’t much focus on that because Thugs B and C yanked him back and Thug A went at it again with gusto.  The world blurred and he let himself fade, greedily seeking the reprieve of the blackness poking into his vision and numbing his limbs.  That was probably selfish, checking out while Steve and Clint were still in serious danger and at the mercy of their enemies, but he couldn’t stop himself.  He knew this feeling.  Being pushed too far, hurt too much, dragged beyond his limits.  He remembered it from the silo, the point where agony had come around so far that it actually became numbing.  Pleasant, even.  Where the darkness of unconsciousness turned inviting rather than terrifying.  He was there.

“Warning: structural integrity compromised.  Evacuation is suggested.”

“Leave him alone!  He said it was true, and it is!  He told you the truth!”  Despite Clint’s exclamations, he was pretty sure the truth was irrelevant at this point.  Strucker’s men were going at him because they were mad.  Mad that Zemo had beaten them to their trophy.  Mad that this adventure to the bottom of the ocean, undoubtedly costly in terms of men, resources, and time, would apparently be futile and fruitless.  Mad that Zemo had gotten there _first_ , sucked Captain America dry of everything he’d had and left them with nothing.  There was _nothing_ left, and they were taking it out on him.  A foot hooked its way under his ribs, aggravating a whole host of injuries, and Tony’s lungs seized up inside him.  He was going to stop breathing now.  That’d be okay, right?  Lungs fail.  Hearts fail.  Furthermore, he was going to stay down this time.  Pepper always told him he was terrible at listening, at learning his lesson.  Well, now he’d learned.  He’d learned.

“ _Leave him alone!”_

“Kill them.  Kill all three of them!”

Vaguely he heard struggling, fists pounding flesh – _Clint Steve_ – and screaming.  _Just shoot us.  Please.  Cleaner.  Easier._   “Stop!  Stop!  They didn’t get all of it!  The serum!  _They didn’t get it all!_ ”

That was Steve’s voice.  Through the vacuum his senses had become, Tony managed to recognize it.  That made him crack open eyes that were aching and swollen.  He was lying on his belly in something cold and wet – _right, flooding_ – and he choked on the water in his mouth.  Someone had been kicking his back, but at the moment nobody was hurting him.  There was pressure there, bad, miserable pressure, but it was steady and constant and he could somewhat think beyond it.  As shadows shifted and slipped into focus around him, he realized muzzily Strucker’s men were standing over another form flattened into the water.  Blue scrubs and spiky brown hair.  There was Clint.  It took some effort to find Steve, even though Tony was pretty sure he was still yelling.  His voice was strained with pain and exhaustion, cracking with it, but he was still standing, held up by Strucker’s men with that knife at his neck as he was yet again being made to watch his friends be tortured.  _You jerks are so uninventive._   There’d been a point, though, hadn’t there?  A reason why he’d opened his eyes to this dark, cold, wet hell where they were about to be beaten to death?

Steve.  Flapping his yap.  _Again._

Rogers was shaking.  “They didn’t get all of it.  Zemo said they didn’t.”  _He did?_   “They tried, but it’s in my DNA and they couldn’t take that.  They couldn’t get at that, so it’s all still there.  In my DNA.  The serum is still there.  So you can get more.”  Was Steve still high from the morphine?  Even after all that?  He had to be.  What was he going on about?

Strucker turned to the soldier, eyes narrowed, face analytical.  Steve gave a shuddery breath, trying to stand strong with the blade tight to his neck and the men holding him firm.  “It’s, um…  I need to reboot.  My body replenishes its own supply of the serum.  Once that happens, it’ll make more and you can extract it.  Stark knows how.  He saw the equipment they used.  And Barton.  They read everything Zemo’s men logged about the procedure.  They know what to do.”

What the hell was he doing?  Tony’s brain was battered to mush, so he couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it.  He had a vague memory of reading some files not too long ago in the lab where they’d hurt Steve.  Lots of files, in fact, detailing the procedure, how they’d neutralized the serum to keep Steve weak and docile, how they’d filtered his blood to collect it…  _“The subject’s body appears to no longer be generating the serum.  It is possible a shock to the cells might induce more production.”_   Yeah, he’d read that.  And he’d said it, too.  _“Or how about we sit here until you reboot and teach these bastards a lesson?”_   How the hell could Steve reboot?  Sure, he’d _said_ that, but he didn’t mean it.  And he couldn’t remember a damn thing about the procedure Zemo’s doctors had used, not the drugs involved or the technology necessary.  It was all destroyed and flooded.  _And_ this wasn’t his area of expertise.  Had Steve forgotten that?  Bruce could figure it out, but Bruce wasn’t here.  Clint was smart, of course, but Steve was talking out of his ass.  Clint wouldn’t have the slightest clue what to do.  _And why the hell is he offering up his body to another HYDRA henchman?_

Then his addled mind kicked into gear.  This wasn’t Steve turning himself over to Strucker. This was Steve trying to buy them some time, hence the emphasis on Tony’s and Clint’s importance in this equation.  This was Steve trying to convince Strucker to capture them all, not kill them.  If Strucker thought there was chance he could get the serum, maybe he’d take it.  Like good ole Captain Ahab after his proverbial Moby Dick.  Maybe that wasn’t any better in the long run, trading one crazy, sadistic, evil HYDRA bad guy for another, but if it got them out of this place, it was worth it.

Steve swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the knife.  “Right, Tony?  I need to reboot, and then my body will start making the serum again.”

Tony could barely move with the boots heavy on his back, but he lifted his head enough to sputter, “Yeah.  Right.  Reboot him.  That’ll work.”

“Gonna throw that away?” Steve rasped.  “After all this, you want to just kill us when you can still get what you want?”

That pleasant, feminine voice interrupted.  “Warning: structural integrity compromised.  Evacuation is suggested.”  There was a low rumble, like this section was giving a keening moan.  Like it was dying.

Strucker didn’t care.  He appraised Steve doubtfully, as if the hallway they were in wasn’t crumpling and flooding.  “Are you lying?”  Steve didn’t answer.  It was taking a lot out of him to stand, to defy.  Tony blinked the tears and water from his eyes and made himself focus, made himself hope.  His heart lurched in terror when the bastard with his fist in Steve’s hair yanked his head back even further, the knife cutting deeper.  “Are you?  Answer me!”

“What does it matter if I am?” Steve ground out.  “You want to take the risk?”  He tipped his chin back more, trying to inch away from the knife’s edge.  It was fairly impossible, given how tightly they were holding him.  “We die, and you lose any chance you had.”

Strucker seemed to consider that a second.  His men backed off of kicking the hell out of Clint, and the archer slumped down onto the floor on his belly.  He was conscious enough to roll a little to get his face out of the water.  Tony looked away, blinking and blinking to clear his vision.  Now he was pretty sure he had a concussion, as well as some busted ribs.  His chest was on fire, and his back hurt so bad he could barely make himself breathe.  But he did.  He did and he prayed as Strucker scrutinized Steve.  “Captain America,” the baron eventually said after what felt like an interminable period of tense silence.  “Still you see yourself as such a big man.  How much lower do we have to bring you before you finally admit defeat?  Until you scream that you’ve been beaten?”

There wasn’t much about this situation that _didn’t_ scream that.  Tony could hardly lift himself out of the puddle into which he was sinking, the soldiers holding him down aside.  Clint hardly seemed any better or more capable, completely surrounded and wheezing painfully.  And Steve was flanked by bigger men, stronger men, held completely at their mercy.  But Rogers never ceased to amaze him.  Throughout the nightmare in the silo, he’d been so damn steady.  Maybe he’d been anything but the last couple of hours, but despite that, despite how small and frail and wounded he was…  “You really want Zemo to win this one?”

Strucker’s eyes flashed.  _“Bring ihnen,”_ he snapped at his men, and that was it.  Tony gasped in misery as the pressure on his back was suddenly gone.  Thugs B and C who had been holding him down in the water were instead hauling him up.  Before he could even get past the pain enough to inhale and think, they were wrenching his arms behind his back and forcing him to walk.  Clint was similarly hauled up and pushed forward.  Strucker towered over Steve.  “If you are trying to deceive me, little man, trust that I will make you suffer.  Let’s go!”

The contingent of HYDRA soldiers closed ranks around them, keeping their three prisoners at gun point in the middle of their group as they marched them down the hallways.  Emergency lights flashed red, bathing the wreckage in blood.  It was worse than when they’d come through before, and littered among the piles of debris there were corpses.  Soldiers who’d been killed in the battle or by the installation go to pieces around them.  Tony was thankfully out of it enough that it wasn’t too hard not to look at the carnage.  He and Clint walked (barely) with Steve between them, the three of them silent aside from wheezing and the occasional whimper as they pressed close together and staggered and shuffled along.  Guns were kept on them, like there was anything they could do now to fight, let alone escape.  Tony blinked, snatching glances left and right.  They were heading back, not quite to the flooded cell in which they’d started this adventure, but past it in the other direction.  _The_ _loading dock.  That’s bad._   He couldn’t remember why for a moment, but it came back, sure as the sun.  That was where all the fighting had been.  That was where a great deal of the damage was.  Of course, there were parts of his brain still somewhat functioning and fettered to reason, and they spelled out the inevitable logic of it all.  They had to go there to get out.  Strucker’s ship or sub or whatever he’d used to attack and invade the installation was probably docked.  There was no avoiding it.

Still, he wasn’t quite prepared for the sound of gunfire, for the smell of smoke and burned flesh, for the blackened char of the corridors, for the _water_ spilling in everywhere.  It was pretty damn remarkable, that the docks were burning and flooding somehow at the same time.  There was debris all over: broken loaders, smashed containers and crates full of supplies, other equipment too mangled and messed up to even recognize.  There was a large rectangular pool that had probably been clean and well-lit, though now it was filthy with oil and who knew what else, shadowy with the inconsistent illumination, and teeming with wreckage.  A pair of fairly sizeable submersibles – _thank God, a way out!_ – was docked against the gangways that closed in the pool.  It seemed probable that there were doors below the pool that led out into the ocean.  Water was coming in from somewhere else, probably from the left side of the massive room where part of the bay was burning hotly.  Alarms were wailing.

There were still men fighting, too, as crazy and stupid as that was.  These were Zemo’s thugs, the remainder of them anyway, and they were probably trying to do the same thing: get to the only way out of this place.  They were entrenched behind debris, shooting at the soldiers guarding the twin subs.  It was impossible to tell the allegiance of the men from their uniforms because they all wore black and red, which only added to the chaos.  Strucker’s men pinned Zemo’s between the sub guards (who were lobbing goddamn grenades like this place could stand any more damage) and the company coming up behind them.  Pretty soon it was an all-out war.

And the three of them were caught in the middle.  _Again!_   That seemed to be the theme of the day, and Tony was goddamn sick and tired of it.  Just as Strucker’s group burst into the warzone that had been the loading dock, a grenade was thrown in their direction.  It hit the metallic grating of the floor with a clatter and rolled practically to the lead soldiers’ feet.  _Jesus!_   It went off, killing the guys right in front of them, and Tony didn’t care to watch.  Instead he yanked Steve down, which took Clint down as well, and covered them both as much as he could.  Strucker was screaming orders in German, and his men were firing into the disaster.  Thugs B and C still had their guns on the Avengers, and Thug A wove his hand tight in Tony’s hair and yanked him off Steve.  “Get them inside!” Strucker yelled.  _“Tue et jetzt!”_

“Yeah, how about no,” Tony muttered, and suddenly the will to fight burst through him.  Thug A was hesitating with the barrage of gunfire, and the inventor took full advantage of that, slamming into him.  The soldier went down under him, his gun flying across the grating.  Tony straddled him, balling his hand into a fist before driving it hard into the bastard’s jaw.  The inventor grappled with him, getting his hands around the other man’s throat and strangling as hard as he could.  All around him, things went even more to hell as if that was possible.  Strucker was screaming.  Something else exploded.  And something rammed into his back.  The pain was excruciating, fiery misery along overly sensitized nerves and torn flesh, and his hands immediately went limp against his will.  He hardly noticed being knocked down and pinned until he felt something jabbing into his stomach.  _The rifle._   Despite the pain, he pushed himself up, scrambling to get his hands around it.  It wasn’t too easy, not with his nerves all misfiring in trauma and the weight on him, but he did it.  It felt so damn good to grab that gun, to roll and push back, to get his finger on the trigger.

 _“Kill them!”_ Strucker bellowed.

Tony smacked the rifle across the face of the guy on top of him, and a second later he was somehow squirming to his feet and firing.  The guy who’d tackled him fell back, dead.  Thug A went down, too, shot in the leg.  Tony might have taken more satisfaction in that if it weren’t for the gunfire pounding into the grating near his feet.  “Tony!” Clint cried in warning.  Heart pounding, Tony dove for cover behind some half broken crates, and bullets ripped into them mercilessly.  He leaned around and returned fire, although he didn’t know at _whom_ to shoot: Zemo’s men or Strucker’s.  _Does it matter?_   Just then Clint found the opportunity and the strength to elbow the guy holding him in the midriff.  Then he was fighting, too, and fighting hard, bringing all his considerable clout as a master assassin to bear.  Thugs B and C were floundering both to protect themselves from the wave of gunfire coming from Zemo’s men and from the Avenger inexplicably engaging them.  Clint was fast, fleet punches and kicks, and he kneed the gun right out of the hands of Thug C.  _Yeah, not so fun now, is it?_ Tony thought vindictively as Clint caught the rifle and dropped both of them like nothing.  “Stark!”

Tony scrambled from behind the crates, crawling across the floor and reaching Clint.  Steve was still on the ground, not strong enough really to even stand, much less fight.  There was no way he could run, not with his feet as bad off as they were.  They didn’t have far to go, at least.  They simply needed to fight their way through two opposing HYDRA factions and steal one of those submersibles.  _Piece of cake._   “We need to get across!” Tony yelled.  He shot at one of the men coming closer to them.  “Now!”

Clint didn’t argue, simply dropping to a crouch near Steve.  The archer was in agony, his pale face bathed in sweat, but it wasn’t obvious from how purposefully he moved.  He reached for their fallen leader.  “Steve, can you–”

The lights went out, plunging everything into darkness.  Tony’s gasps were loud in his head, his heart hammering wildly in his chest.  _Oh, God.  Oh, God!_ This was going to be where they died.  Trapped in the dark as water sucked them down and drowned them.  This was going to be it.  He’d thought that before, here and in the silo and during countless battles, during the Chitauri invasion and when the Ten Rings had tortured him, but this…  _Please…_

The lights flickered back on, revealing the same chaotic scene that had been there a moment before only it was frozen.  _Everything_ was eerily still.  For one moment, the fighting had stopped.  The men had stopped.  It was like time itself had halted, holding its breath for fear of what was about to happen.

Then there was a thunderous boom, one that shook the entire dock, and bright fire exploded on their left.  Tony couldn’t tell if it was due to a poorly aimed grenade or something had simply given way, but again, it didn’t matter.  The results were catastrophic.  He threw himself over Steve, and Clint collapsed atop them both, pressing them all down into the grating as heat blasted over them.  The air seemed to be sucked from their very lungs, the hunger of the fire blasting through the limited supply of oxygen with explosive force, and they were dragged across the floor violently.  Tony thought he might have screamed, though with no air in his lungs it seemed rather unlikely.  He tried to, anyway.  The heat and pain was overwhelming, and for an eternity, clinging to his friends and _surviving_ was all he could do.

When he gathered himself enough to look again, his heart froze in terror.  “Up,” he whimpered, eyes wide and heart straining against his sternum.  “Up, up, up!”

“What?” Clint groaned.

_“Get up!”_

Clint pulled his head up.  He paled even further when he saw the wave of water coming at them.  “Oh, shit,” he whispered, and he was scrambling, grabbing Steve’s thin arm about the wrist and tugging him up.  Strucker’s men were everywhere, some drowning, some still fighting, most trying to get to the subs.  Zemo’s soldiers were doing the same, and the somewhat controlled craziness of the minutes before exploded into utter chaos as the loading dock violently flooded.  Even if they could get through all that hellfire and destruction, reaching a sub wasn’t going to do much good at this point if the dock doors were still sealed below.  It was a chance that couldn’t be taken.  They had to run.

Tony took Steve’s other hand.  He ignored the soldier’s miserable whine and yanked him up.  “Come on, Cap!”

“My plan backfired,” Steve lamented, pushing himself to his feet as much as he could.

“Understatement.”  The three of them struggled to stay upright as the water rushed over them.  It hit them with the force of a freight train, nearly driving them under.  It was only through sheer force of will that they didn’t succumb.  Tony clutched Steve tighter, balling his hand into the slighter man’s scrubs, and held tight to the railing near the gangway.  Everywhere men were drowning, flailing, fighting for the last chance at life.  Water was pouring into the dock and people were sucked away.  The fact that they were going to drown in a matter of minutes was pretty damn undeniable.  They had to go back out.

Tony whispered a curse when he turned to lead the other two to the corridor.  That wasn’t going to work.  There was water flooding in from the left in a huge wave.  Clearly the damage extended beyond the dock.  They couldn’t go this way.  That became even more obvious when a water tight door sealed shut there.  _Shit, shit, shit!_ Now what?

“This way!” Clint declared, and he was pulling Steve right, to the other side of the dock.  There were doors there that hadn’t sealed, damaged maybe or still without power from when it had shut off seconds ago.  That was their only hope.  Dragging Steve between them, they struggled through the rapidly rising water.  It was already up to their knees, and given how tired and wounded they were, this seemed impossible.   Men were screaming all around them as more and more of the dock caved in to the pressure of the water.  “Gotta go faster.”  Clint’s voice, as soft and strained as it was, was somehow thunderous.  “Faster.  Gotta go.”

“No really,” Tony gasped.  Things were tipping slightly, destabilizing, making it even harder to move.  He wanted to quit so badly.  Everything hurt and burned and _they were never going to make it._   _Please, somebody help us…  Please, please, please!_

Suddenly there was somebody, but it was pretty damn obvious he wasn’t going to help.

“Avengers!”  It was Strucker.  A bullet slammed into the water next to them, and Tony had to fight to roll his eyes as they were forced to turn around.  The gun was pointed right at them.  Strucker looked hideous, bleeding from a gash on his head, eyes wild.  He was positively trembling, though whether from the cold water or shock, Tony didn’t know.  “Captain America!  This is where you die!”

“Seriously?” Tony sputtered.  “Are you out of your mind?  Remember what I said about wasting time?”

Clint was bolder, ridiculously so.  He left Steve’s side, slogged right up to Strucker, and balled his right hand into a fist.  Strucker seemed so shocked by that that he didn’t pull the trigger, didn’t do _a thing_ , as Barton snapped, “Give it a goddamn rest.”  He socked the baron right across the face, and he flew back into the flood behind them.  Clint stood there, waves swirling around him, bloodied hand lowering.  Steve and Tony stared in surprise and relief as he turned around after watching Strucker disappear into the water.  “What?”

“Nothing,” Tony said, shaking free of his shock.  “Let’s go!”

They struggled onward, letting the destruction take their enemies, until they were out of the loading dock and into the adjacent room.  It was some sort of computer room, though most of the screens were dark.  Control panels fizzled and crackled with sparks as water dripped and sluiced down on top of them.  It was pouring in behind them as well, the current shoving them forward as the flood expanded.  “Go, go!” Tony yelled, pushing Steve as they went deeper inside.  Another door was across the way, and they charged through that.  And the door after.  And the one after that.  Vaguely Tony realized they were in the engineering section of the installation, where the power relay stations and other environmental and computer controls were.  This area was adjacent to the corridor that length of the place from the now sunken lab, past the loading docks that were very rapidly joining it, and all the way to the other wing.  That was where they had to go.  There was nothing else left.  No place safe.  They needed to get back to the corridor and pray they could outrun a flood.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be that simple.  They’d gone as far as they could through the winding maze of control rooms, and then they were forced to stop.  This room had a huge, thick glass window on one side that overlooked a massive power relay center beyond it.  There was also door back out to the hallway.  Tony left the other two near a console to look down the hall, and when he did he saw the watertight doors had already been sealed ahead.  There were no other doors on the other side of the hall.  “Ah, hell,” he moaned.  This was as far as they could go.  They were trapped again.

And the sound of the water coming behind them was loud, an approaching, crushing thunder.

Tony swallowed through a tight throat, staggering back in the control room.  Steve was leaning into a rolling chair, pale and dripping, so skinny and bloodied it looked like nothing left to hold him up.  Clint was shivering next to him, sporting a new array of awful bruises around his jaw and cheeks.  His nose seemed broken, so he was having an even harder time breathing.  His eyes were loaded with pain and desperation.  “What?”

Tony could hardly believe it.  “It’s blocked.”

Steve’s eyes closed in exhaustion.  Clint’s face was lax.  “There a way around?” he asked.

“Don’t think so.”

They were silent a moment, the roar of the water deafening, louder even than their strained hearts.  Steve shivered helplessly, pressing closer to Clint for comfort, broken and quivering in defeat.  Clint slung his arm around Steve’s shoulders, broken himself, and Tony just lost his temper.  He staggered to the console, looking over the screens in frustration.  Even in German, it was pretty damn obvious what was going on.  The umbilical had been completely severed, probably in the last series of explosions, so there was no power coming into the installation at all anymore.  What was currently supplying the lights and floundering systems was running off the backup batteries, but a series of them were offline.  Tony’s mind raced, his wet fingers flying over the keyboards and touch screens, as he searched what parts of the system were still functional.  “Goddamn it,” he moaned, wincing and shaking his head.  He was having a really hard time focusing, but the power schematic he brought up was obviously showing the problem.  “Goddamn it!”

“What?” Clint gasped.  He was wide-eyed, watching the water coming in.  “Tell me you can get those doors open!”

Tony wanted to cry.  “I think…  There might be enough power left to get the computers up.  I can hack back in and override the doors.”  If the system was the same as the one in the lab, it should be easy.  _If_ they had power to get all the computers online and the emergency systems rebooted.

“So do it!” Clint shouted, voice rough with panic.  “Hurry!”

“The breakers of the emergency batteries are blown!” Tony snapped.  He typed furiously, trying to force the mechanics to reinitialize and bring the batteries back online.  The diagram showed them, jammed and unresponsive.  Without them, power couldn’t pass from the batteries to _anything_ , and with the supply they had now dwindling…  In a matter of minutes they’d be completely in the dark again, and this time there’d be no way to fix it.

And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it from here.  Tony practically screamed in fury, pounding the console.  “Goddamn it!”

“What?” Clint cried.  “Jesus, Tony, _what?”_

“We’re going to be out of power,” he replied hotly.  “Soon.”

“How soon?”

“ _Soon._   The umbilical’s dead.  There are batteries, but–”

“Get them on!  Reboot everything!”

“How?” Tony snapped.  He gestured to the blackened room beyond them, where the lights of the submerged machines were the only spots in the pitch.  He could see the bad breakers.  There was a huge row of them on the opposite wall behind housing for the batteries, but four were blinking red.  The switches beneath those needed to be reset, but there was no way in.  Even if there was, the room was almost completely flooded.  More watertight doors next to the windows had sealed it.  Maybe there was another way back there, a different path through the maintenance and engineering rooms closer to the dock, but everything behind them was filling rapidly with water.  They had to go _forward._ There was no way back.

Clint blanched with the damning realization.  “Oh, Jesus,” he breathed.  “What do we do?”  There was no answer but the rush of water and the moaning of the systems and the creaks and cracks of the floundering bulkheads around them.  “Stark, what do we do?”

Tony cracked apart.  “I don’t know!” he shouted.  He pounded the useless console again.  “I can’t do anything from here!  There’s no way to force the breakers to realign remotely!”

“There’s gotta be another way,” Clint insisted, eyes frantic.  The water was nearly up to their waists.  “There’s gotta be!”

“What do you want me to say, Barton?” Tony snapped, vitriol thick in his hoarse voice.  “There’s _no_ way!  No way up!  No way out!  We’re trapped here!  The doors are down, and without power to the computer, and, mind you, _the doors_ , I can’t do anything!”

“Well, find some power then!” Clint demanded.

Tony could hardly believe this.  “ _Find_ some power?” he repeated incredulously, not caring one bit if it was cruel or condescending.  “Ever heard of a little thing called thermodynamics?  This whole freaking installation here?  It’s an isolated system!  Closed off!  Power comes from above, and that’s it!  We can’t generate energy!”  He shook his head, furious with how helpless he was.  “I can’t fix this!  Don’t you get it?  The first law!  I can’t _create_ energy!”

“I’m not in the mood for a physics lesson,” Clint harshly retorted.

“I’ll make it simple then,” Tony snarled.  “We’ve got what we’ve got, and that’s it.  Energy can’t just be _made_.  You can’t just reboot without power.  So we need to manually realign those breakers to get at what’s in the batteries.  Otherwise we are going to drown.”

The devastating reality of it struck, and it struck hard.  There was no way to get into the adjacent room to fix the problem.  And there was no time now.  Steve slumped into the chair, sniffing.  He shivered, though whether from the cold or trauma Tony didn’t know.  Clint closed his eyes as all the fire and fight left him.  All they’d done.  How hard they’d fought.  How far they’d come.  _None of it mattered._

 _No._ Clint growled and slogged to the window.  He planted his hands on the glass, staring furiously at those red lights in the abyss beyond.  Inaccessible.  Unreachable.  He pounded on the window, like the strength of one man could break the barrier (and even if it could, they’d drown anyway when the water came in).  Defeat hit hard and fast, and Clint went down onto his knees.  The water was almost up to his shoulders, and he nearly sank into it.  Tony could hardly bear to watch him.  The pain was too much, too strong.  _Stay down.  Die.  Should have never tried to fight.  The goddamn first law.  Can’t make something from nothing._

They were silent for another minute.  Then Clint suddenly shifted.  It had been so still that his jerky movement through the water was shocking.  He was scrambling toward the door, and Tony wondered if this was the moment where Barton completely lost it, where he rammed himself into that thick slab in the vague and futile hope of getting it open until his body was broken.  But that wasn’t it.  Clint reached down, and his eyes went wide.  “It’s not sealed all the way!”

Tony stumbled closer, splashing everywhere.  He looked down through the couple of feet of water to the floor.  _Holy shit._   Barton was right.  The door _wasn’t_ sealed.  It had malfunctioned, hadn’t entirely come down to the floor, and there was maybe a foot or eighteen inches of space.  A gap big enough for child to fit through.

Or…

_No._

But Steve was already moving.  Clumsily, he came to stand at Tony’s side.  His teeth were chattering, his lips nearly blue with the cold.  “What do I need to do?”

_No.  No, no, no._

“Tony!”  His voice was sharp and commanding.  “What do I need to do when I get in there?”

“No!” Tony cried, whirling on his friend.  “No!  You can’t do it!  _You can’t goddamn do it!_   Do you hear me, Rogers?  _No!_ ”

Steve shook his head.  “I have to.”  It had been decided.  It was done, over, committed without a breath of debate.  This was what was happening, and it was too late to stop it.  “I’m the only one who can.”

To hell with that being true!  Tony grabbed Steve’s bony shoulder, yanking him back less than gently.  The reasons spilled from him in a flood all their own.  “No.  No, no.  You’re crazy.  You can hardly breathe as it is!  And you won’t be able to see anything!  You’ll never make it back!  It’s too far for you to swim!  You’ll die!”

Clint was absolutely horrified.  “Steve, Tony’s right.  We can’t let–”

But Steve wasn’t listening.  “You two, get out of here,” he commanded.  Suddenly it was Captain America’s voice coming from him again.  Suddenly he was standing tall as if he wasn’t beat and mauled to hell, as if he wasn’t literally ninety pounds soaking wet, as if he wasn’t verging on an asthma attack and hypothermia.  This was Captain America, jaw set and posture proud and eyes flashing.  “When I get the power back on, go.”

Tony refused to release him.  _Refused._   “There’s another way.  We’ll find another way.”

“There’s no time.  You said it yourself.  This is it.”

“Christ, Steve, _no!_ ”

Steve’s anger was palpable.  “Let go of me.”  Tony didn’t.  If Steve were still Captain America, Iron Man’s grip on his arm would be nothing, a simple thing to break.  And this would be a simple task.  Steve could hold his breath for a long time, swim harder and faster and longer than anyone.  The distance to the other side of that room was nothing to Captain America.  Right now it might as well have been an ocean.  If they still had Captain America, this would all be okay.

They didn’t have Captain America, though.  And Captain America couldn’t fit through that gap.

But little, de-serumed Steve Rogers _could_.

Steve sighed shortly.  “If this is what I need to do, I’m going to do it.  It’s alright.  I can do it.  I know I can.  I can do this one thing.”

All the rage and frustration simmering inside Tony turned huge and hot, like a star going supernova.  “So that’s it,” he seethed, tears burning his eyes.  “This is where you give up.  All the shit we’ve been through, all the stuff we’ve fought, all of it, climbing up from the last level, what we’ve done here…  _This_ is where you quit!”

“I’m not quitting,” Steve returned lowly.

“Don’t lie!  That’s _exactly_ what you’re doing!  Making the goddamn sacrifice play because they took the serum from you!  Because you think this is all you’re good for, right, Rogers?  Because you’re not Captain America anymore, and you don’t want to fight!”

Steve grabbed Tony now, grabbed him hard and tight.  His fingers curled into the flesh of Tony’s bicep, his blunt nails digging like darts.  His eyes glittered with tears, and his lips trembled as he snapped, “I’m doing this because _I am Captain America_ , and I _do_ want to fight!”  His voice cracked, weakened by the poor state of his lungs and so much emotion.  “I’m doing this because it’s what I _can_ do.  I’ve been damn dead weight since they did this to me–”

“Steve, no–”

“No.  I haven’t been able to fight, haven’t been able to run.  I’ve _slowed_ you down.  That’s not my fault, but I’m not going to sit here if there’s something I can do to help.  You want to talk about laws, Tony?  Hard facts?  Absolutes?  Here’s mine.  I’m not going to let you guys die if I can stop it.  That’s who I am, serum or no.  So let me go.”  Tony didn’t, too hurt, too terrified.  Steve sighed.  “Let me go, Stark.  Right now.  That’s an order!”  Still he didn’t, and Steve’s face finally softened.  “Please.  Trust me.”

Tony held Steve’s gaze as long as he could, but it wasn’t long enough.  His soul quaked as he finally looked away.  _Now_ defeat was heavy on him, _drowning_ him.  Nothing they’d gone through seemed worse than this.  They’d been together at least, braving it all as friends.  _Brothers._   And now…  Tony’s hands fell away because as much as he wanted to rage and rail against this, there was no sense in it.  Steve was right.  He was the only one who had a chance at saving them now, as incredulous and unlikely as that seemed, and it was as simple as that.  There was no time to debate the merits of their choices.  Two lives were worth more than one.  Another hard and fast absolute.

He let him go.

Steve shuddered through a sigh.  He took another precious second or two to gather himself, breathing deeply, trying to nod.  “Okay.  Okay.  Now what do I need to do?” he asked again, softer, slower, even though the water was rising and every second they lost was one less they had to get out, and if Steve was laying down his life so that Clint and he could escape…  Tony couldn’t think, couldn’t answer.  Couldn’t do anything but teeter on the edge of despair.  Steve’s hands grabbed his face, like he was trying to haul him back.  “Tony, talk to me.  What do I need to do?”

“Flip the breaker switches,” Tony murmured, unthinking, too numb to even breathe.  “That’s it.  There are four.”

“Four?”

“Yeah.  Red lights over there.”  Steve gazed through the pitch blackness, taking it in.  “That’s all.  The batteries should come online.  I’ll get control of the doors.  And I’ll get ’em open.  We’ll get you out before…  Before…”  _Before you drown._ He couldn’t say it.  Steve nodded anyway, swallowing thickly, and wiped reddened hands at his eyes.  This was the goddamn silo all over again.  Steve climbing to the top.  Steve saving them, no matter what it cost him.  Goddamn him, he was right.  He was Captain America, and this was what Captain America did.  _No!_ “Christ, please don’t do this…  Please.  Please!”

 _No time._   Something banged and moaned, and the room vibrated loudly.  Tony grabbed Steve, crushing him to his chest, bereft of words, of _anything_ other than this desperate plea to make this not happen.  Then Clint huddled close, hugging hard, shaking harder.  Steve pulled away when the room moaned again.  _No time._   He sloshed up to the door, his slight form quaking, his hands balled into fists at his side.  For a few precious seconds, he focused on his breathing, on calming it, on controlling his weak lungs so that they did what he needed them to.  He looked back at them once.  Once.  _No time._   Then he got down on his knees, the water nearly up to his chin, and sucked in as deep a breath as he could manage.  A second later, he was gone.

_Another goddamn leap of faith._

Clint pressed close to Tony’s side.  It was so damn dark that they couldn’t really see him.  The water came in faster all around them, tickling at their ribs now, and it was so hard to stand there.  To wait.  To hope.  Seconds escaped as they peered into the darkness.  Could Steve even swim the distance?  Could his lungs manage this?  Had he even got past the door?  Doubt swirled and swirled in Tony’s head, in his heart, like the fathomless abyss before them.  If Steve couldn’t do this…

“I see him,” Clint whispered.

Tony looked harder.  At first, there was nothing.  Then the outline of something that looked like an arm by the red lights.  A skinny, bony arm attached to an equally skinny and bony chest.  Steve was there.  He fumbled in the pitch for a horrendous eternity before Tony caught sight of fingers grasping one of the large switches.  Bathed in the bloody glow, the seemingly skeletal digits gripped and pushed.  It took a second, and the light switched to green like the rest.  _Yes._   A second later, the next light switched.  And the next.  The last lingered, though.  Tony shook his head, horror leaving him in a queer, miserable stasis as he desperately watched that final red light.  _Come on, Steve.  Come on._   Nothing.  He prayed.  He prayed hard, _willing_ that damn thing to change color, willing Steve to save them.  _Come on!_

Finally it turned green.

The lights immediately shuddered to life.  Tony choked on a sob, not looking, not wasting a second and instead slogging back to the console.  With the water so high it was difficult, but he didn’t stop, didn’t even think, reaching for the controls that were now submerged.  “Tony, hurry!” Clint cried.  “Get the doors open!”

Reeling with panic, Tony scrambled to boot the system.  It was taking its goddamn time, churning through its sequences, the monitors not underwater ticking down the steps.  The instant it delivered him to a prompt, he took a deep breath and dove under the surface to make it easier to work with the controls.  They were shorting and malfunctioning left and right, but he didn’t let that slow him, fingers flying and praying everything worked long enough for him to route power to the doors and their controls.  It worked.  The computer responded to his commands and reinitialized the system.

Like before, though, it was going to take some time.  Time Steve didn’t have.

Tony gasped, drawing a breath into his burning lungs, as he broke the surface.  Forty-five seconds until the doors were operational, the monitors proclaimed.  _No._   Thirty.  _No!_   “Tony!” Clint shouted.  “Do something!  _Do something!_ ”

“I can’t,” he whimpered, swimming back to Clint’s side.  “I can’t!  It’s rebooting everything!  I can’t–”

 _“No!”_   With the lights on, the relay room beyond the window was bright.  The darkness was blasted away, revealing the worst of horrors.  The water was to the ceiling in the room beyond.  There was no way out.  Even if there was, there was no chance Steve could escape now.  He was right near the opposite wall where the switches were.  And he was very visibly in the process of drowning.  “Steve!  Steve!”  Clint banged loudly on the window, on the door, now throwing everything he had left into it.  It wasn’t enough.  It wasn’t anything.  “God…  Oh, God…  Tony!”

There was nothing they could do but wait.  Wait and watch.  Tony pressed himself to the window.  _Oh, please…_ It looked… _painful._ The violent final throes of life desperately racked Steve’s small, thin form.  He jerked, bubbles popping from slack lips as his lungs rebelled in a last struggle.  Blood trailed upward in a thin stream from his mouth as he sank down.  His eyes were half-lidded, devoid of emotion, devoid of life.  Fading.  Empty. 

 _Watch._   Tony needed to.  He had to.  He wouldn’t look away.  He wouldn’t.  This was all he could do.  _All I can do for him now._

Steve gave another shudder, just one more awful lurch, and he went still.

_“Steve!”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bring ihnen._ – Bring them.  
>  _Tue et jetzt!_ – Do it now!


	8. Chapter 8

Steve was dead by the time they got to him.

After opening the doors, Tony had found the controls for emergency pumps in the relay room, and he managed to get them working.  It was _wasting_ power, which they couldn’t afford to do, and it was so sadly obvious that Steve was _gone_ , but he hadn’t even hesitated.  Frantic, shaken, and lost up in his panicked anguish, he’d rerouted power to the pumps and reinitialized them.  The whole place had shuddered as they had started up, and Tony feared for a second the damaged engineering section wouldn’t withstand it.  That was probably fitting.  Probably what they deserved.  Still, everything had miraculously held itself together, and the pumps had pumped, sucking the water out of the flooded room.  Clint had fought with the door, yelling and clawing at it, pushing it up as much as he could with his broken body and the weight of the water against it and everything goddamn malfunctioning.  Second by second, foot by foot, the water had drained.  And finally the door opened and they flew inside.

It didn’t matter, though.  _Steve was dead._

They’d come in a flurry of panic, grabbing Steve’s limp body and settling him gently to the floor on his back.  He was white and cold.  No respiration.  No pulse.  Tony had immediately started chest compressions.  Clint had breathed for him, squeezing his nose shut and sealing his mouth over Steve’s blue lips.  It hadn’t done a thing.  He’d been dead for too long, for multiple minutes.  There was no returning from that, but they’d tried to bring him back anyway, pushing on his cold, unmoving breast, forcing air in his still lungs and trying to contract a heart that was no longer beating.  They’d counted and continued and hoped and prayed and shouted, too desperate and too deeply in denial to do anything else.  _He’s not dead._   That had been the only thought in Tony’s head as he worked, hands balled together over Steve’s sternum.  That had been the only thought he’d allowed himself to think as he’d cursed and yelled and demanded _Steve wake up.  “Open your eyes!  Breathe!  Damn it, Steve!  Come on!  Come on!  Don’t you quit on us!  You can’t quit on us!  Wake up!  Breathe!”_   He’d railed and screamed.  Clint had, too.  It was all pointless.

_Steve was dead._

Now the two of them sat in the wet relay room, the water drained away to almost nothing.  Just seconds before, Clint had stopped, had told Tony to stop, had sobbed that it was too late, just _too late_.  And Tony had stopped.  He was frozen in place, leaning over Steve’s body, dripping water, dripping tears.  It was too much to process.  The endless whir of thoughts in his head was for once utterly quiet and still.  He couldn’t think.  He couldn’t feel anything aside from the rough, unforgiving shock of it all.  And he couldn’t speak or move.  All he could do was stare at Steve’s face.  It was thin, gaunt, and bruised.  Still so white and so cold.  Steve’s eyes were closed, long lashes dark where they were pressed tightly to ashen skin, and he was so damn still.  That tiny body filled with little, brittle bones and faulty organs and a soul way too strong for its own good…  _He’s dead._

“No,” Tony moaned.  His soul positively shattered inside him.  It felt like he was being ripped limb from limb, only he was _fine_ and _alive_ and _it’s not fair!_   “No, no, God…  No!  Please!”  Before he even knew what he was doing, he scooped Steve’s sodden body out of the remaining water with a quiet splash.  Steve’s arms were limp, drooping back behind him and doing _nothing_ to hug back as Tony embraced him tightly.  “No!  Come on, Steve!  This isn’t right!  This – it’s not – it’s…”  His eyes were wide, his breath shallow.  Voice cracking.  Heart breaking.  He squeezed Steve’s body to his chest, shuddering through a deep sob.  _No!_ “You can’t do this to us!  You hear me?  You’re Captain America!  You’re goddamn Captain America!  You’re better than this!  You’re stronger!  And you don’t quit!  Open your eyes!”  Steve didn’t.  “Open your eyes!  Open ’em!  Come on, Steve!  I told you it’d be okay!  Don’t you dare make a liar out of me!”  Nothing.  Nothing at all.  “ _Come on!”_

“Tony,” Clint whispered, his own eyes wet and wide with shock.  “Tony.”

“No!” Tony snapped, turning a vicious glare on the archer from which the other man actually recoiled.  “No!  This isn’t supposed to happen!  He doesn’t get to die for us!  Not for us!  Not like this!”

Clint was shaking hard like the pain inside was making him physically ill.  “Tony, he…  He made his choice.”

 _“No!_   He can’t make that choice!  To sacrifice himself for us?  _Bullshit!_   He’s not allowed to!  _He’s not allowed to!_ ”  The next thing out of his mouth wasn’t intelligible.  It wasn’t a word even, just a long, keening wail.  Tony threw his head back and just screamed, letting his voice echo through this godforsaken place.  Clint flinched and choked on a sob, actually curling in onto himself because there was nothing else to hold.  Nothing else left.  Nothing but frustration.  Futility.  _No._   _I can’t.  I can’t!_ Tony’s rage was burning inside him, so hot that he actually felt warm for the first time in hours.  He let it go, let it consume him.  Denial was automatic.  “We were supposed to make it out of this together!” he railed.  “Always together!  All of us!  That’s how it is!  We’re Avengers, and we stick together.  Like the three goddamn Musketeers!”  _Friends.  Brothers.  All of us or none of us._   But Steve was dead.  Steve wasn’t going any further.  Every time that awful realization arced across his brain, the pain became simply unbearable.  Denial was _all he had._ “No, no, no…  No!  This isn’t right!  He does the hero thing, but he doesn’t die.”  Steve hadn’t.  All the times he’d saved them in the silo.  In the many battles the Avengers had fought together.  Here, even.  He was invincible.  The serum made him that way.  He was _invincible._   Tony shook his head frantically.  “Don’t you see?  He saves people.  But he doesn’t die.  He _never_ dies.  He’s Captain America!”

“Tony, don’t.”

“He doesn’t die!  No one dies, Clint!  _No one!_ ”

“Tony, please…”  Clint was begging.  Begging him to stop.  Begging him not to make this worse.  _How can it get worse?_   He’d asked that over and over again since they’d woken up here, how it could possibly get worse.  And it had, _every time._   What was the point?  He’d asked that, too.  What was the point of stopping, of fighting, of holding it together?  Why?  Why bother now? 

_Why did you do this?_

Tony gasped raggedly, unable to control his breathing, as he clenched Steve tighter to him.  “You’re Captain America,” he whispered into Steve’s ear.  “You’re Captain America…”

Steve was.  And that was why.

It was quiet.  Everything around them moaned and dripped and ached.  The fire inside went out, and the blessed heat was gone.  Suddenly Tony was so tired.  So beaten down.  He sobbed silently and unabashedly with his face buried into Steve’s bony shoulder, with his eyes squeezed shut against the anguish.  A pathetic shield.  No armor.  _Nothing._

Clint eventually shuffled closer, sore, miserable, and shivering.  He slid one arm across Tony’s shoulders and his other around Steve, hugging both men to him, and wept with soft, halting breaths.  It was all they could do, and they did it.  Minutes slipped away like water through their hands.  It was so, so terribly quiet.

“Warning: structural integrity compromised.  Evacuation is mandatory.”

It was like a knife to their hearts, the reminder that the world existed outside this moment.  That they were still in trouble, in mortal danger, and they needed to escape.  Clint moved first, trembling, sucking in a deep breath.  He looked around with wide eyes.  Something somewhere groaned, a deep, rattling vibration that couldn’t mean anything good.  “Tony.  Tony, we have to go.”

“No,” Tony moaned.  He squeezed Steve tighter to him.  It was irrational, _insane,_ but he did it anyway because he’d failed and he couldn’t let any of that go.  “No.”

“Tony,” Clint gasped.  “We gotta.”  Sure enough, something banged a few rooms down, loud enough to shake them, and the roar of rushing water came back.  This wasn’t happening. Tony couldn’t move, curled around Steve’s body, soul shattering as alarms started to wail anew.  “Tony, we have to go!”

“We can’t leave him!”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tony knew he should be grateful that Clint was at least somewhat with it.  That his brain was functioning at least a little.  The archer grabbed Tony’s bruised shoulder hard, his fingernails digging painfully into his collarbone.  His eyes flashed with desperation.  “We can’t take him.”

And somewhere, back there in that same place in his head, Tony _knew_ that was true.  Steve was dead.  There was nothing more they could do, no way to change that.  They had to leave him behind.  But _damn_ if it wasn’t impossible to do that.  It felt like betrayal of the worst sort.  The commands from his brain down the nerves of his spine and arms and fingers to release the body just never reached their destination, almost as if they’d fizzled out somehow.  _I can’t do this to him._

Clint was suddenly right in front of him.  And he was suddenly very composed, hazel eyes intense and jaw set.  “Tony, we can’t take him.  _We can’t._   And if we don’t leave _right now_ , he dies for nothing.”

That, the awful thought of Steve’s sacrifice being in vain, was enough to get him moving.  God, it hurt.  It hurt so _goddamn much_ , but he carefully laid Steve’s body back down in the water.  All of the horrors done to him were so stark and undeniable, the bruises and blood and broken bones, but his face was lax and peaceful.  Tony quaked with sobs he barely restrained, folding Steve’s hands over his stomach.  Then he leaned over him and kissed his forehead.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.  “I’m so sorry!”

Clint was there, pulling him back before laying his hand on Steve’s brow for a moment.  Just a moment.  Then he hauled Tony to his feet and they ran.

The watertight doors in the hallway were open but only just.  They splashed through standing water nearly two feet deep to squeeze through the narrow gap.  Breathing heavily, beaten nearly to breaking, they kept going.  Clint kept an arm around Tony, and Tony did the same to Clint.  They didn’t speak.  There was no breath left in their lungs and no life in their hearts.  Through the worst parts of it all, the darkest depths of the silo and this hellish, watery nightmare, there had always been talk.  Light-hearted camaraderie and snarky conversation to make easier their burdens.  Solace and encouragement against the dark.  Strength in friendship, in fellowship.  In brotherhood.  The silence was even more unbearable now, now with their hearts stuck back in that watery tomb with Steve’s dead body, but neither of them had the fortitude to break it.  It was enough to cling to each other, to put one foot in front of the other with the water all around and the weight of their injuries and exhaustion and grief dragging them down.  It was enough to simply keep struggling.  And they had to.  Steve had died so they could, so that they had a chance to escape.  They had to escape.

At a fork in the hallway, Tony paused.  His head hurt so badly and he was so lost that he couldn’t think of where they were for a moment.  Clint sagged against him, coughing and shivering badly.  “Which way?”

Tony glanced left then right and then left again.  “I don’t know.”

Clint looked, too.  His teeth were chattering together.  “Pick one.”

Tony considered the choices.  No matter how he tried to bring up that map of this place in his mind, he couldn’t.  So he simply selected a direction as Clint suggested, and left they went.  There was slightly less water here and a tad more power, the lights a bit brighter and things more operational.  They quickly passed offices, more labs, and living quarters, all abandoned.  They didn’t slow down or stop.  There was no time to search anything, not anymore.  Here the going was easier, so they limped faster, feet heavy on the grating of the floor.  _This is a maze,_ Tony thought desperately when they reached another T-junction.  Just like the lab on the other side of the complex, the area was filled with turns and choices.  He went right this time just to be different, frustrated more and more.  There had to be a way out.  A way to the umbilical.  Maybe there was something there.  Maybe the elevator there was still working somehow.  It didn’t seem likely, not with what he’d seen on the schematic back in the lab and on the monitors in the relay room, but it was the closest chance for escape.

Not close enough.  “Goddamn it,” Clint moaned when they reached the control center for the lift to the surface.  Another gigantic cargo bay was beyond the small room in which they stood.  It was simply monstrous, stretching fifty above them and maybe another fifty feet below.  And it was completely flooded.  The massive doors in the top of the installation were closed, but they looked damaged and not sealed properly (hence the leak).  Obviously the emergency containment systems had failed.  The lights flickered wildly, and in every flash they could see drifting corpses, loose equipment, and unfortunately a great deal of debris in the water.  Huge, mangled chunks of the walls and ceiling lumbered inside the pitch like hulking monsters.  The umbilical cables, which were as thick as redwood trunks and on the other side of the room, ran from the floor far below where they secured into power relays and through those somewhat sealed bay doors to the surface above.  There were actually two massive lifts, cars that were water tight and attached to the umbilical.  Tony could barely spot them through the darkness and the wreckage in the way.  The elevators had to have some sort of power; there were lights on inside.  And they were intact, which was a minor miracle.  But neither was moving.

Tony glanced at the working computer displays lining the control room.  The umbilical had been severed approximately two hundred feet above them, but the elevators were functional.  _Fat lot of good that freaking does us._ Then he looked over their systems reports.  Life support.  Power.  _Propulsion._ “They’re submersibles,” he murmured, heart pounding anew.  He shook his head, eyes widening.  “They’re ships!  They can detach from the cables!”

“What?” Clint gasped.

“Both of the cars can uncouple from the umbilical!  They’ve got engines of their own!”  He could hardly believe it.  The engines were not powerful or big enough to take them anywhere significant, but they definitely had enough oomph to jet them to the surface.  That was probably why Steve had been confused about whether or not they’d been transported in an elevator or a sub when Zemo had brought them down.  These things could detach!

But Tony’s excitement died as fast as it came.  With the entire section flooded, there was no way they could get to them.  There was _no way_ to swim there.  Tony wasn’t sure what the water pressure was in the bay, but even if it wasn’t deadly, the distance was just too far.  It was like a football field was between them and salvation.  If they had both been healthy and capable and not ripped to shreds like they were and falling apart, maybe it would be possible.  Also if it wasn’t so pitch black inside and if their path wasn’t so loaded with debris, _maybe_ they’d have a shot.  But the way it was…  His frustration was poisonous.  To have come this far and have a way out _right there_ but out of reach…  “We’d never make it,” he moaned despondently.  Tears burned his eyes again, tears he refused to let fall.  “We’d never make it.”

Desperately Clint looked around.  He was searching, either trying to rail against the sad fact or prove it to himself.  It didn’t matter.  If the way his muscles were flexing in tension was any indication, he was caught between wanting to flip out (which was fairly unimaginable for him) and wanting to cry (which was equally unlikely).  Some part of Tony’s brain idly thought he’d never seen the other man, always so composed, look like this.  Broken.  Reduced to nothing.  Not even when he’d been blind in the silo had he seemed so defeated.  “Someone help us here…” he whimpered weakly.  “Please…”  Tony closed his eyes at the prayer.  “What can we do?  We gotta…”  _Got to what?_ What was the point of fighting?  There was no way out, no way up, and he was in so much pain.  He was so damn _tired_.

 _No._ He opened his eyes again and narrowed them.  _We’re not giving up.  Steve died for us, so we’re not giving up!_ “We gotta go another way,” Tony declared, shaking his head resolutely.  “We have to try!”

Clint didn’t argue.  He just tugged the inventor against him, holding onto him as much as he could like he feared if he loosened his grip for even a second Tony would just disappear.  Tony did the same.  They turned back, running out into the hallways again as fast as they could.  Inexplicably the direction became clear.  There was only one option left, and they both knew it.  That finality sunk in and didn’t let up, _drowning them._ This was it.  Either it panned out or they died.  It was their last shot, their last chance.  Their one last hope of surviving this.  _That escape pod._   The dome-like room they’d seen on the schematic.  Of course, they were hedging their bets on the assumption that it was an escape pod.  _It has to be,_ Tony thought with a surge of hope and certainty.  This was a closed environment, an isolated system.  There were only so many ways out, and Zemo had escaped.  The umbilical elevators were both there in the bay, so the baron couldn’t have taken one of those.  Strucker’s ships were probably sunken now but they’d been guarded by enemy soldiers.  Unless Zemo was _dead_ somewhere with all the rest of his men, he’d gotten away, and those dome things were the only explanation.

So Tony threw his faith in that, because he wasn’t dying here.  _He wasn’t._   Steve had sacrificed himself for his sake, for their sakes, and he was going to make damn sure that meant something.

They surged on.  Suddenly the image of the schematic, previously so blurry and useless in his head, was remarkably clear.  He led Clint wordlessly, finding again the main corridor that ran the length of the entire installation.  With the watertight doors disabled, the flood that had consumed the other side of the complex was creeping faster and faster into where they were.  The computer was still monotonously droning on about needing to evacuate.  _Love to.  How?_   They pushed further and further, ignoring the warnings and the debris blocking their route.  Eventually things became a little easier as they reached the other end where the barracks and storage facilities were.  Thankfully, with the power failing and emergency protocols enacted, all of the security checkpoints were open.  Passing room after room, they searched for the pod.  _Please, no more,_ Tony thought, his heart shuddering in anxious terror at every new hallway or novel location.  No more horrors.  No more surprises.  No more enemies.  They couldn’t take _any_ more.  Clint was barely keeping up with him, his pace slowing once more as the strain of running aggravated all of his injuries.  He paused to cough often, nearly choked once, and when he did, his hand came away red.  He was very nearly spent.  Tony himself wasn’t fairing much better.  His back was burning where he’d been practically flayed open.  He felt lightheaded and woozy from shock and blood loss.  It was a minor miracle both of them were still on their feet, still fighting.  And it was all because of Steve.

They couldn’t die now.

Finally they reached another T-junction.  Tony couldn’t remember this part.  Hell, he hadn’t been sure of the path up to this point, but now everything was really hazy and indistinct again.  _Left or right.  Shit._   He looked one way and the other and then the first _again_.  “Goddamn it,” he whispered, exasperated.  He tried to focus and think, but he was so cold and wet and hurt that it was impossible.  He tried to picture the schematic, but all he could see was Steve’s white face, bruised and battered and completely still because he was dead.  Suddenly it was all just overwhelming.  The thought of losing Steve.  The thought of never seeing Pepper again.  Sweet, beautiful Pepper.  Down in the silo when he’d been wounded and waiting to die, he’d feared he’d never have a chance to make things right with her, to tell her exactly how much she meant to him.  So when they’d been rescued, he’d sworn to himself that he’d be perfect for her.  He’d _do_ those things.  He’d spent the last six months appreciating her, worshipping her, and letting her know it.  He’d loved her like he never had before.  And he’d been so good to her.  He’d been good to all of his friends, in fact, to his team and his family.  Somehow, though, that didn’t make this any easier.  He wasn’t any more ready to die.  How the hell had Steve just looked death right in the eye and said _okay?_   “I just…”  His hands slapped loudly against his wet thighs.  “I just want to go home.”

Clint barked out a rough laugh.  If he was going to say something, he never got the chance.  The hallway shuddered.  Behind them, there was the sound of bending metal, a muffled thunder like the roar of a stampede or avalanche coming closer.  “Oh, Christ,” Clint moaned as the corridor behind them started to buckle and compress like a damn tin can caught between someone’s boot and the ground.  Seams popped.  The incredible pressure of the ocean, once held back by thick steel and materials made to withstand that crushing force, was winning the war now and winning it quickly.  Like cracks in a dam that had widened and widened, _this_ was the point where it all came apart, where the damage overcame everything.  The entire place was imploding.

The two Avengers shared not a word as the frigid water burst down the hall behind them and rushed over them anew.  There was no choice about which way now.  The water shoved them right, so right they went.  Tony curled his hand tight around Clint’s wrist, running with everything he had left, splashing at the very edge of the flood.  The water was coming at them in a wave, frothy white from the violent motion, reaching towards them with frigid fingers that sought to ensnare and suck them inside.  They skidded around another corner, the water sweeping them off their feet.  _No!_ Clint went down with a wrangled cry, landing on his back with a splash.  “Get up!” Tony screamed over the roar, not letting go for a second even as Clint’s skin turned slippery.  The water pounded into them, once again absolutely frigid and unforgiving.  It swirled around the hallway, building higher and higher with each moment they spent floundering.  There were no more moments to spare.  “Get up!  _Get up!_ ”

Clint got up.  The water actually helped, pushing and lifting, and he planted his feet under him.  Tony pulled him to his side, and they clutched each other with everything they had left, gasping and limping down the next corridor.  _There._   Double doors waited on the right side about halfway down, and across the way there was another junction with an actual sign ( _thank freaking God_ ).  His German wasn’t great, but he recognized the word for “emergency”.  He couldn’t spare a second to wonder if that was right.  He thundered down the way, keeping Clint close – _God, don’t let him go!_ – and fumbling for those doors.

They were smooth, locked, and there was no handle or knob.  Just as he realized that, the flood slammed into them anew, dragging them away from the doors and each other.  Tony refused to let go, even as he was slapped viciously in the face by the water.  _Panel._   Now he spotted it, a little to the left.  He sputtered on the liquid in his mouth, in his lungs, blinking it away from his eyes, and lunged upward.  _Open it._ He fumbled for the green button, jabbing his thumb hard onto the surface.  _Open!_   It actually did.  Considering how shitty their luck had been since waking up in this hellhole, that was fairly shocking.  The flood raged by harder, dragging Clint away from him.  With a cry and effort that sent agony shooting through his back and chest, Tony flung his arm forward and grabbed the doorframe.  _Don’t let go!_   His fingers scrambled for a hold, and his shoes digging for purchase on the floor under the assault of the water.  He held on, stretched wide, wailing in pain.  Curling his fingers even tighter into the flesh of Clint’s arm, he hauled him closer.  “Come on!” he shouted, his voice barely rising above the din.  “Come on!”

The raging water was pulling Barton away, trying ardently to separate them and drown him, but that wasn’t going to happen.  Tony gave another ragged cry, the skin of his back ripping further as he dragged the other man closer against the current.  Clint flailed, choking on water, scrambling for footing.  He reached out and at long last got his fingers around the door frame.  “Get in!” Tony begged.  “Hurry!”  He helped with a mighty shove, the best he could manage while trying to keep himself upright and steady.  Clint staggered in, water splashing all around him and actually pulling him along once he got past the threshold.  He coughed, soaked to the bone yet again, and pulled Tony after him.  Crying out, Tony freed himself from the suck and drag of the flood and crashed inside the room.  The door slid shut.

They lay in a panting, trembling heap for what felt like a long time, trying to catch their breaths, to rise above the panic and terror and mounting despair.  “Warning: structural failure imminent.  Evacuation is mandatory.”  Tony rolled onto his hands and knees.  His sneakers squeaked as he scrambled to his feet.  The escape pod – thank God it _was_ an escape pod – was right in front of them.  The dome structure was quite tall and extended above the ceiling so that only the curvature of the pod was visible.  The doors to it were open, and it had power.  The lights were on inside.  It was undamaged and _working_.

Tony could have cried.  Instead he tugged Clint up.  “Come on,” he ordered again, breathless with genuine hope.  Clint rallied as well, seeing salvation in the sleek, gray vessel in front of them.  Despite what it had cost them (and it had cost them _so much_ ) to get here, here they were.  And it was wrong to feel relief, but they both did.  Tony could see that in Clint’s eyes.  There was guilt and grief, too, like to continue on now was akin to betrayal. _This is what Steve wanted.  This is what we have to do._   “Come on.”

They limped inside.  There was an airlock, through which they stumbled, and Tony turned to shut it.  Once it was sealed, they moved from the little alcove to a bigger room.  He gave their surroundings a quick appraisal.  This pod was obviously meant to save quite a few people; there was space in this section alone for more than twenty men.  A few EV suits hung on racks along the sides, complete with lockers of helmets and boots.  There were other things; tanks of oxygen, all carefully secured, tools, supplies, and other gear one might need in an emergency.  Tony gave it all a glance before charging past.  A ladder extended up through a hole in the floor above.  The top of the dome was up there and in it whatever likely passed for a cockpit.  Climbing up the metal rungs was a bit of a challenge with how injured he was, the beating Strucker’s thugs had given him compounded on injuries from the fight with the monster compounded on the miseries from earlier than that.  Clint struggled more, feet slipping and hands shaking.  Somehow they both made it up.

And _voila._   The cockpit.  Tony could have cried, even might have.  A whole console of controls spread before two seats, and there was power, glorious power, and everything was functional.  Tony stumbled into the first chair after guiding Clint into the other.  “Okay,” he gasped, forcing himself to focus.  “Okay, okay.”

“You know how to work this thing?” Clint asked, wide-eyed as he took in the array of touch screens, knobs, buttons, and dials.

“What do you think?”  Tony flipped a few switches overhead and jabbed his thumb into the button for the power up sequence.  There was a huge window that stretched almost entirely around the pod, but there was nothing but blackness beyond it.  The abyss again.  Throughout all the running, he’d forgotten what it looked like.  As the engines whirred to life, vibrating their seats, the exterior lights came on, not that they did much good.  Shafts of illumination glinted off tiny specks in the water, but there was nothing more than that.

The way to go was obvious, though.  The escape pod’s navigation system immediately honed in on some sort of signal from the rig above.  Tony breathed a little sigh of relief at that and at the fact that turning everything on had automatically set the launch doors to open.  They rattled as they did, breaking the watertight seal, and the ocean began to rush into the room around the pod as it prepared to launch.  And launch it did.

For about thirty feet.

Then everything lurched to a sudden, shocking halt.  “What the hell,” Tony moaned, wresting control from the autopilot.  He frantically looked through the displays, trying to isolate the problem.  It was on the port side.  Something had tripped the collision sensors on the pod’s exterior.  Warnings in German blinked on the screens, and they refused to disappear no matter how angrily he tapped at the touch interface.  “Goddamn it.”  The anger and frustration turned baleful and too powerful to hold in.  “Goddamn it!”

“What?” Clint demanded, shaking his head.  “Now what?”

“We’re stuck.”  With a twist of a knob, he angled the exterior lights in the direction of the problem.  The monitors revealed the issue in all of its awfulness.  “Holy shit.”  The _entirety_ of the umbilical was lying across the top of the installation.  It looked like it had been severed in multiple places (at least what they could see from their limited perspective.  The lights didn’t carry very far in the blackness).  The huge sections of cable had sunk down, breaching the top of the complex.  It was remarkable the place was still as intact as it was (which wasn’t saying much).  And that was neither here nor there.  A ripped, mangled chunk of the umbilical had landed close to them, and it was tangled up in the docking clamp, preventing it from releasing all the way.

Tony wanted to scream.  Instead he pulled back on the throttle of the pod, trying to overpower the clamp’s hold.  The engines hummed loudly, and the pod shuddered and shook, but it didn’t do any good.  They lurched viciously forward before snapping right back.  Tony growled, flipping more switches to activate the weaker thrusters on the sides of the craft, hoping to jostle the pod back and forth a bit.  They were jostled, roughly so, but again to no avail.  Tony tried more, firing up the propulsion system and rocking the pod back and forth in different patterns and sequences.  Nothing was making a damn bit of difference, and trying any harder would damage the pod.  Frustrated beyond the pale, he shoved the controls away and slumped back into his chair.  “God, just freaking kill us.  If that’s how this is gonna end, just goddamn _do it_.  I can’t take any more.”

They were absolutely silent.  Distantly things were breaking, cracking, exploding and imploding.  The pod trembled with the force of it, half trapped in the disintegrating base, half tasting sweet freedom.  It was so damn close that it was torturous, terrible, _unbearable_.  To have it right there and not be able to reach it.  Like the top of the silo six months ago.  Like the sun had been back then.  Somewhere above them, far above them and beyond the surface of the ocean, maybe the sun was shining now.  It was still so far away.

“What can we do?” Clint finally asked.  He was staring outside, face whiter than ice, eyes empty.  Fighting just because he’d been trained and conditioned to do it, not because he wanted to or cared anymore.  “What can we do?”

Tony knew the answer, of course.  There was only one.  He’d seen it on the schematics the computer was flashing on the monitors.  “The docking clamp’s damaged, but there’s a manual release.  One of us has to go out there and use it.”

“One of us?”  Clint’s tone was soft, deadened with the realization.  It was hardly even a question.

“Me.”

“No.”

“You already took the hit!” Tony snapped in fury.  He glared at the archer.  “You took the hit for Steve.  I’m taking this one for us!”

“This isn’t a competition,” Clint returned coldly.  “I have _no idea_ how to operate this thing or how to get us going once we free ourselves.  _No idea._   So you are going to help me get into one of those suits and I’m going to go out there.  You’re going to walk me through exactly what I need to do. Then get me back in and off we go.”  He said all of that so simply and authoritatively.  Lord, it reminded Tony of Steve.  “Let’s not waste any more time.  I’m getting the impression this is it.”

Another explosion rocked the pod.  _This is it._

They were back down the ladder with a surprising amount of alacrity.  Back in the airlock, Tony fumbled to prep a suit.  His hands were shaking, and his vision kept blurring with pain and panic, but he got one ready.  Thankfully these suits were high-tech and handled most of everything themselves, including managing their own power and O2 levels.  He made sure the communications lines were open and functioning before handing Clint the ear piece.  Then he aided the archer in donning the thermal under armor that would keep him warm and his skin protected.  It was difficult, given how banged up Clint was, but he was stoically swallowing down the pain to wriggle into the thin bodysuit.  After that came the heavier EV suit itself.  Tony fastened and adjusted, working quickly.  “Ironic that I’m the one putting on the armor,” Clint murmured.  “Feels all backwards.” 

Tony barely grunted a laugh.  He didn’t want to even talk about it.  “There’s a lever along the arm of the docking clamp.  All you need to do is pull it.”

“And if it’s damaged, too?” Clint asked as Tony fitted the chest piece over him.

Tony shrugged helplessly.  “Then we’re well and truly screwed.”

“So make it work,” Clint responded calmly.  “Got it.”

Tony could hardly believe he could be this tranquil about this.  About going _out there._   He’d offered to do it himself, but it was damn terrifying.  Nothing but a thin layer of cloth, rubber, and metal to keep one’s body intact against the cold and crushing ocean outside.  All those things he’d said before were echoing in his head now.  _“The water pressure would crush you long before hypothermia set in.  We’d be dead in seconds, and it wouldn’t be pleasant or pretty.”_   Before he could stop himself, he was hugging Clint, hugging him hard, clinging to him because Steve was dead and Clint was going out into the depths of the ocean with nothing more than a tether and a hope and Tony _couldn’t lose anyone else._ “I can’t let you do this!  I can’t!”

Clint embraced him back as much as he could in the bulky suit, breathing deeply and closing his eyes.  “Hey, it’s alright.  I want to go home, too, you know,” he whispered.  “I want to go home.  Back to the team.  This’ll get us there.”

 _The team.  The Avengers._   Without Captain America.  Without Steve.  Tony winced against the burning beneath his eyelids and the pain in his heart.  “Yes,” he heard himself saying.

“And I want to hunt Zemo down and kill him,” Clint declared.  “Kill him for what he did to Steve.”

_We will._

After that the archer was stepping away to the outer alcove, giving Tony one last, weary look.  He was slouching a bit with the weight of the suit (sad, since it didn’t weigh that much), but he stood straighter at the last second, holding the thick tether where it was connected to his waist and offering a trite, clichéd thumbs-up with his other hand.  Tony swallowed down his pounding heart and climbed back up into the cockpit.  He sealed the hatch and settled back into the seat.  It took a lot to flip on the comms to Clint, to actually go forward with this.  “Ready?” he made himself ask.

Clint’s voice came back, loud and clear.  “Yeah, Stark.  Do it.”

Tony thumbed the controls to flood the airlock.  Immediately it began to fill with water, the video feeds displaying the outer hatch opening slowly to the flooded area below to reduce the impact of water rushing inward.  It was like witnessing someone being slowly buried alive.  Clint was breathing heavily.  “Fun times,” he said with a terrified laugh.  Tony smiled grimly.  _So many fun times._ Eventually the room was completely filled with water, equalizing the pressure, and the doors opened all the way.  “Okay, I’m going out.”

He did.  The lights from his helmet illuminated his way.  The power in the room had gone out during the pod’s launch sequence (or maybe the energy in the complex was finally spent.  It didn’t matter which because the result was the same: utter pitch blackness).  Clint thumbed controls to adjust the buoyancy of the suit, and up he went.  It was slow going, and every second felt like an eternity.  Tony chewed his lip until he tasted blood, watching the whole thing from the cameras both on Clint’s suit and the exterior of the pod.  The installation rocked again, and alarms about the failing structural integrity and dying power reserves blared all over the pod’s monitors.  Tony switched them off.  “Doing okay?”

“Fantastic,” Clint replied tautly.  “What are the chances this place blows up or implodes or does whatever it’s going to do while we’re stuck here?”

“Who the hell knows.  And with the way things have been going, high.”  Through the video feed, Tony spotted the docking clamp and the huge section of the broken umbilical laying atop it.  “There.”

“See it.”  Clint pushed up as fast as he could, which wasn’t much.  The weight of the water was crushing, reducing everything to a painful crawl.  It was like he was moving through frozen molasses.  Still, he made it up the side of the pod.  The engines couldn’t be activated with the airlock open, and that just made Tony more anxious.  There was _nothing_ he could do from in here if something went wrong.  Clint made it to the docking clamp.  There were two thick plates, each bigger than a man and pressed into deep insets on the side of the pod.  They needed to be retracted.  With his hands wrapped around the arm of the large clamp, Clint guided himself to the apparatus where it was fastened atop the roof of the complex.  “And I see the lever.”

Tony breathed a tad easier.  “Can you get to it?”

“Yeah.  Hold on.”  The cameras on Clint’s helmet shifted for a second as he maneuvered himself, going up and over the arm to get to the other side.  The tether drifted dangerously close to the wreckage of the umbilical.  Tony was about to warn him about that, but he saw it himself and pulled it away.  “Okay.  I’ve got it.”  There the lever was.  It was long and red and unfortunately dented from where debris had struck it.  _Please work._ Clint got both of his hands on it and pulled slowly.  Nothing moved.  Nothing happened.  “It’s stuck!”

Once more, Tony could have screamed.  If Clint couldn’t get that thing to retract…  “Pull harder.”

“Working on it.”  For another moment or so, Clint did, fighting to get enough leverage to move the damaged mechanics.  He was panting loudly, which made up for the fact that Tony wasn’t breathing at all.  “Damn it.”

This wasn’t worth it.  It was too dangerous, and obviously they were just screwed.  They’d _been_ screwed since Zemo had kidnapped him.  Frankly, Tony would rather die with Clint at his side than separated like this.  “Just get back here.  It’s not going to give.”

“It will.  It’s moving a little.”

“Clint–”

Suddenly the lever swung all the way down.  The heavy thud of the mechanics reengaging shook the pod.  The system immediately registered they were loose.  Tony gave a triumphant whoop.  “Okay!  Okay, come back.  We can go.  We can–”

Disaster happened in miserable slow motion.  The top of the installation simply caved in, finally and at long last crushed by the ocean.  The retracting docking clamp twisted as its support disappeared, and as it did, it tangled itself in Clint’s tether.  Tony saw it happening, saw every awful second of it, but _there was nothing he could do._   “Clint!  Clint!  _Look out!_ ”

It was too late.  The force of everything collapsing downward yanked Clint away.  He gave a wrangled scream, violently dragged into the huge hole into which the debris was being sucked.  Alarms flashed _everywhere,_ warnings about damage to the complex, about power failure, about imminent disaster.  Warning and warning and _warning._   Warning about the tether being pulled taut, to its maximum distance.  Warning about the EV suit being compromised, about damage to the oxygen tanks.  And Clint just disappeared.  The video feed from his suit went black.  The external camera registered him being sucked away, and he was gone.  “No, no, no!” Tony screamed.  “Clint!  Can you hear me?  Clint!”  He couldn’t do anything with the damn airlock flooded, and he needed to move _now._   The tether yanked the pod to the left and yanked hard.  The force was violent as the pod slammed into the crumpling side of the launch bay.  Scrambling to regain his wits and his balance, he engaged the pressurizing system to pump the water out so the airlock could seal itself.

The tether was in the way.

 _Shit._   “Clint!”  Panic left him shaking, nauseous, and horrified.  “Clint, God, answer me!  Are you okay?  _Where are you?_ ”

“I’m here!” came a harried, hoarse response.  “I’m here!”

Frantically, Tony looked everywhere he could see outside the pod.  “Where are you?  Tell me where!”

Nothing but heavy breathing answered him.  Then there was a pained whisper.  “Trapped.”

 _Please, no.  No!_   He kept looking and looking, scanning the darkness, trying to rotate the lights to see anything, some sign of where Clint was.  He found him a second later.  It was almost nothing, just the barest glint of the suit’s coppery color among shadows and wreckage.  The tether was extended all the way because Clint was back closer to where the umbilical had been attached to the base and the main cargo bay.  It was almost impossible to see him.

And Tony couldn’t move without closing the airlock doors.  “Hang on!  I’ll pull you in.  Just hang on!”

“No.  It’s all tangled up.”  Clint gasped a ragged breath.  “Murphy’s Law, right?”

Goddamn Murphy’s Law.  Tony gripped the controls of the pod, ignoring the warnings and the dangers and firing up the engines.  “I’m coming.  I’ll find a way to force the doors shut.  I’ll–”

“Tony, I’m running out of oxygen.”  Tony refused to look at the displays.  _Refused._   He didn’t want to see that, even though he _knew_ it was true.  The suit was damaged.  Clint was losing breathable air, losing power.  There was no time and even less hope.

It was so quiet again.  So damn quiet.  Clint’s voice was small when it finally came again, echoing through the audio system in the cockpit.  “Detach the tether.”

It was completely irrational, denying the sad and fast truth, but again Tony did.  Again the angry argument spilled from his lips.  “No!  I won’t!  Don’t do this, Barton!  Not you, too!  No!  _No!_ ”

“No choice.”

Tony choked on another sob, burying his face in his bruised hands.  “Clint, please don’t make me do this.  I can’t.  _Please._ ”

“I’m not making you do anything,” came Clint’s even response.  The pressure on the pod suddenly released, and Tony’s blood went cold with shock as he rocked back in his seat.  The vessel tipped right.  “I just unhooked it.  So go.  You…  You have to.  You gotta leave me behind.”

Tony sat, completely numb, too horrified to do anything other than exist through the following moments.  It seemed impossible, to be in this same position again.  To be losing Clint mere minutes after losing Steve.  _It wasn’t possible._ But it had to be, because he was still alive.  Still breathing and seeing and feeling.  Tasting blood and tears.  The monitors were still wailing.  He looked at them because he felt like should.  Clint’s suit was losing power fast.  Very fast.  The pod’s systems were telling him to retract the tether.  Engage the engines.  Escape, because that was what it was meant for.  _Escape._ That homing beacon was flashing, calling, waiting for him.

He couldn’t go, though.  He couldn’t.  Not without Clint.

The silence was deafening.  He could hear Clint’s labored breathing.  He wasn’t calm now.  Panic was bleeding into each shaky inhale, each miserable exhale.  It was a bit of a toss-up, which would go first.  His air or his power.  Tony watched the gauges drop, and the quiet went on and on, like the blackness stretching all around them.  Eventually there was a hoarse murmur.  “Tony?”

Tony sniffled.  “Yeah, Clint.”

“I told you to go.”  That was weakly said and obviously not firmly meant.

He thought of strong arms around him.  The silo.  The comfort in companionship in the darkest of places.  The peace in knowing someone else was there.  “Didn’t want you to die alone.”

There wasn’t a response for a moment.  Then Clint actually chuckled.  Tony could almost picture that wry smile of his.  Maybe Clint gave him crap about his bad jokes and lame puns and awful pop culture references.  Maybe they didn’t see eye to eye all the time.  But when it came down to it, this man was his friend, one of his best.  And they knew each other in all the ways that mattered.  So what he said next, voice wavering and thick with emotion, came as no surprise.  “Then I’m glad to be with you, Tony Stark.  Here at the end of all things.”

Tony smiled through his tears.  “Couldn’t resist that, could you.”

“Nope.  Turnabout’s fair play.”  There was another labored breath.  Then another.  “I guess this really is the end of all things.”  _Seems that way._   The words were stuck in Tony’s throat, and they wouldn’t come out.  “But at least one of us’ll get out, huh?  I’ll tell Steve that, when I see him.  That you got out.”  His face crumpled in pain, and pressing against his lips was a sob he was trying to hold back.  “I’ll tell him that if you tell Nat and the others that I–”

That was it.  The line went dead.


	9. Chapter 9

Tony was the only one left.

_The only one._

Steve and Clint were gone.  _Dead._   That made him the only one still standing, the only one still fighting.  The last of them.  _The last one._   The enormity of that was too much for him to process, so he numbly sat in the pilot’s chair of the escape pod, staring at the displays that had once shown the statistics of Clint’s suit.  They were dark now.  That was the one thing he’d done: switch the monitors off because the sight of Clint’s power and oxygen levels dropping to zero had been too devastating.  There was nothing he could do to stop it, and he’d never done well with helplessness.  The pod’s other systems, which were barely maintaining a connection with the installation’s failing computer, were registering that the collapsing roof was being sucked further inside.  If Clint was caught in that mess, he’d likely been crushed.  That was, of course, if his suit hadn’t been compromised so that the water pressure had killed him or if he’d simply run out of air.  Tony refused to think of it, refused to even picture it.  It was there in the back of his mind, crawling in the shadows.  Clint’s destroyed body.  The feel of Steve’s skinny, limp form in his arms, as light as a doll.  _They’re dead._

_I’m alone._

It felt like an eternity while he sat there, too shocked and tortured to even think.  He needed to go.  The pod was still partially inside the launch bay.  If he stayed here, he’d die.  There was damage to the exterior, injuries caused by the chaos of the moments before.  Things were whining and blinking, but he couldn’t make himself see or hear them.  He couldn’t make himself care.  He tasted something salty and warm and realized he was crying.  He felt the pain anew from his lacerated back and battered chest, how wet and cold and tired he was, how hard it was to breathe.  For the moment, that was all he could do to stay conscious.  Breathe.  Suck a breath in and then let it go.  Close his eyes and concentrate on that, on the precious feeling of air in his lungs.  That was all there was, the only thing on which he could focus.  The echoes of the horrors up to this point were dancing in his head.  Steve shouting.  Clint fighting.  The three of them running, pressed close together, protecting each other.  _There’s no way out.  No way up._   He shuddered, swallowing down a miserable wail.  They were dead, and part of him wanted to die, too.  That was what he deserved for losing them, for letting them go.  _No hope._

There was, though.  They were going to find it together, the three of them.  Holding tight to one another.  They could face anything like that because they were Avengers.  They were teammates.  They were _friends_.  _No one dies!  No one!_

_If I die, it’s all for nothing._

Tony opened his eyes.  He leaned up from the chair.  “You goddamn bastard,” he hissed.  “I’m coming for you.”  Quickly his fingers flicked the monitors back on.  He shut off alarms and overrode the warnings preventing him from sealing the airlock with the systems still engaged for extravehicular activities.  His fingers hesitated a moment over the switch that would detach the tether.  Clint had already cut himself off before he died, but if the line was tangled in the debris, Tony would be going nowhere fast.  And he knew Clint was gone, _knew it_ , but flipping that switch was damn near impossible.  It was only the rage mounting inside him that forced him to do it.  He was going to kill Zemo.  Nothing was going to stop him.  _Nothing._   He flipped the switch.  With the tether gone, he was able to close the airlock doors and pump the water out.  It took only a few moments for the hold to pressurize.  “You hear me, you son of a bitch?  I’m coming to kill you.”  _Vengeance.  That’s what left.  I’ll kill Zemo.  I’ll make him pay for what he’s done to us.  To both of you.  It’s all I can do._

_I’ll end him._

Tony didn’t bother with the seat restraints, turning the engines on as high as they would go.  He pulled back on the pod’s controls, redirecting the lights ahead of him as he surged through the damaged launch doors.  The force of it was more violent than he thought it would be, and he swallowed down a cry as his damaged back was thrust into his seat.  _To hell with that._   He gritted his teeth, reaching to adjust the pod’s trajectory to hone in on that signal from the rig above.  It was getting stronger as the pod rose from the abyss.  _Not going to lie down and die.  Not staying down here.  Never._   The rear cameras were displaying the installation as he moved away.  It was difficult to see because all the lights had gone out, but he could catch glimpses of mangled metal and crushed concrete, the strength of a structure meant to stand against unimaginable force reduced to shadows and wreckage.  _A watery tomb._   The thought angered him further, so much so that he was nearly shaking with rage.  _Goddamn you, Zemo.  Goddamn bastard!_   He could barely get control of his fury, of his labored breathing, of his thundering heart.  “I’m gonna get him, guys,” he whispered.  No one answered, of course.  That didn’t matter.  He ignored the warnings about ascending too quickly.  He ignored it all and forced more speed from the engines, even as the submersible rattled around him.  “He’s not getting away.  I swear to God.”

_This is where it ends, and I’m going to kill him for what he’s done._

Every second felt like an eternity.  Tony blinked and blinked to get his eyes to focus.  Some part of him realized he was in serious shit.  Blood loss.  Bruised if not broken ribs.  Internal bleeding, in all likelihood.  Enough blows to his head that he knew he had a hell of a concussion.  That, coupled with the emotional and psychological trauma of watching his two close friends sacrifice themselves for him after all they’d endured, was enough to drop anyone.  And he wanted to drop.  The urge to succumb to all the pain and exhaustion and grief was nearly overwhelming.  But he couldn’t.  _Have to make it right.  Have to kill him._   There was no flourish to the thoughts, no reasoning, nothing aside from cold, hard anger.  It didn’t matter that Zemo was probably already gone.  It didn’t matter that _he didn’t stand a chance,_ not alone, not as beat up as he was, and not without his suit.  It didn’t matter if he lived or died at this point.  _It didn’t matter._

He had to do this.

Eventually the water grew brighter.  It was a gradual transition, from complete pitch darkness to lighter shades of black to eventual navy and dark blues.  Tony checked the depth meter.  He was still hundreds of feet below the surface, which was a testament to just how deep they had been (as if there’d been any doubt).  The sub moaned and creaked as the pressure on its hull lessened, allowing the flexible metal to expand loudly.  Even though Tony knew it was safe, he looked up and held completely still, listening and wondering if everything would hold.  The groaning was unsettling, haunting and eerie, but he didn’t stop.  Living for his own sake was irrelevant now.  He only needed to escape to kill Zemo.

A beep drew his attention to the console.  He’d ascended to a depth where the GPS system in the pod could re-establish contact with its satellites.  Gritting his teeth, he rapidly brought up his coordinates.  “You have got to be freaking kidding me,” he muttered as the screens filled with location information.  This was _bullshit._   They were just beyond the boundary of the US territorial waters off New York.  It was far enough out to sea that the US government had no jurisdiction to police the area but close enough to be a threat.  For some reason, this pissed him off even more, that Clint and Steve had died so miserably close to home.  “Yeah, you stupid son of a bitch,” he whispered, trying to bring up the pod’s communications array.  “You made a huge mistake.”  He could have Iron Man – hell, the whole Iron Legion – here in less than a couple minutes.  All he had to do was get in contact with JARVIS.  _If JARVIS is okay.  If the Tower is still standing._   He’d forgotten with everything that had happened, everything he’d lost, that he didn’t even know if Zemo had destroyed their home after kidnapping them.  He wasn’t going to think about that.

And he wasn’t going to be able to call for help, at least not this way.  The communications system on the pod wasn’t strong enough to give him the range he’d need to reach JARVIS (or anyone else).  Tony growled in frustration.  That meant he’d need to find something, some way, on the rig.  “Fine.  That’s not a problem.  That’s not – whoa, _shit!_ ”

A collision warning blared.  He barely got his hands on the controls, whipping them frantically to the left.  The sub turned to its port side just in time to avoid a massive hunk of twisted metal coming down at him.  Tony’s heart was pounding as the debris sunk just to the side of the pod, a second away from hitting it.  A beam protruding from the chunk scraped across the window, scratching it something fierce.  “What the hell?” he whispered, watching the hulking thing pass by.  It was dumb to even think it, but he did with a huge rush of shock.  _It’s coming from above._   He looked up, where more wreckage was slowly falling at him.  _What’s going on up there?_   It was damn obvious.

Something or someone was attacking the rig.

 _Strucker._   It made sense for it to be HYDRA fighting HYDRA above and below.  He supposed there was a chance it could be someone else, someone who could help him, but he didn’t have any faith at this point that the whole goddamn universe wasn’t out to get him.  At the very least it would hopefully provide enough of a distraction so he could get aboard the rig.  He was ascending faster now, and he could see the four huge legs and their tethers where they anchored the structure above to the ocean floor via weights.  The cables went back down into the abyss.  Dangling in the center of the massive trunks was the umbilical.  Tony directed the pod closer, figuring there was likely a way into the structure on the surface given the elevators had been attached here.  Sure enough, as he approached the surface, he saw bay doors in a little inlet.  “Alright,” he said, taking a deep breath.  He followed the computer guidance, reducing his speed and using the pod’s thrusters to bring the vessel into alignment.  “Pray everyone’s too busy to care.”  He maneuvered the pod with surprising calm and patience, focusing hard on the task at hand to keep his emotions at bay and the pain out of mind.  It took only a few seconds for him to dock.

Quickly he flipped through the switches and buttons, making a proper seal between the vessel and the airlock.  Then he staggered from the chair with all the speed he could manage.  He had to move fast; like this he was helpless and vulnerable if anyone was watching, and there was no guarantee he wasn’t already being attacked.  The pod vibrated, a distant explosion reverberating through the airlock where it was flush to the rig, and Tony nearly slipped from the ladder.  _Out of the frying pan,_ he thought again, his sneakers squeaking as he landed into the lower level.  “Can’t you assholes just kill each other and be done with it?”  He glanced around uselessly.  It felt monumentally stupid to charge out of here into a probable warzone unarmed.  There was nothing he could use as a weapon, at least nothing he could easily wield.  Finally he spotted a blowtorch, likely meant to perform exterior repairs.  Cocking his head in submission, he grabbed it and headed toward the airlock.  _Deep breath._   That was so damn hard.  There was a sob perpetually locked in his throat, and he felt one jolt away from completely hyperventilating.  _Deep breath.  Come on._   As the airlock pressurized and the doors started to open, he finally managed it.  _Okay.  Okay._

_I can do this._

Tony stepped out to find himself on a loading platform.  There was no one around him.  _Thank you, God._   He spent a few seconds standing still there, looking and listening.  There were pipes and scattered cargo everywhere, and klaxons were wailing.  Again.  If Tony never heard another alarm, he’d die a happy man.  He gripped the side rails of the gangway that extended from the airlock to the main walk, limping badly with the torch held out in front of him and his finger poised on the lighting mechanism like a trigger.  He was realizing anew that he was hardly capable of fighting, now when he was stumbling and struggling _alone_ because Clint and Steve weren’t there to help him.  Tony snarled under his breath, fighting to get himself up the stairs.  His vision blurred and his body burned, and all he could concentrate on was climbing.  _Not going to fall.  Not going to fail.  Find him.  Kill him.  Make him pay._   Normally he might have thought twice about something so base and useless as vengeance.  Well, maybe normally if his body hadn’t been buckling under agony and his mind sinking into a haze of grief-induced fury.  He could practically hear Steve’s annoyingly calm, annoyingly _right_ words.  _“It’s not worth it, Tony.  Come on.  You’re a good man.  The best.  This isn’t you.”_   Perfect, moral Steve Rogers.  He’d let himself be killed to spare Tony’s life.  And he’d haunt his conscience now, of course.  No matter what, Steve would be there to keep him on the straight and narrow.  Bail his butt out.  Help him be a better hero.  The first goddamn law of being Captain America: stay true to what was right.

At least he figured Clint would be okay with this.  And Zemo had the serum.  He needed to be stopped.  So that was a good reason.  Wasn’t it?  _“Yes, but that’s not why.”_ And, of course, this weird, little, silent, _delirious_ war between the proverbial angel and devil on his shoulder (not that Clint was the devil, but little Steve Rogers was _most definitely_ the angel) went on.  _“Stop trying to rationalize it!  You’re better than this!”_

 _No, I’m not.  And I don’t give a damn._   “And you don’t give me orders now, Cap.”  The sound of his own voice startled him, and he snapped from the haze in his head.  Apparently he was completely freaking losing it.  He gasped a sob, collapsing against the cold concrete of a wall.  “Jesus tap-dancing…”  He’d walked all this way half unconscious, it seemed, because he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there.  He was still holding the blowtorch, but he only knew that because it was godawful loud as it slipped from his numb fingers and clanked against the grating of the floor.  “Damn it.  _Goddamn it…_ ”

How the hell was he going to take on Zemo like this?

 _“Find a way to contact JARVIS, you moron,_ ” Clint snidely declared.  _“Things are well and truly screwed if I’m telling you how to figure this out.”_

 _“Call JARVIS,”_ Steve agreed.  _“Get help.”_

Screw help.  Tony bent as best he could without pulling at his back, scooping the fallen torch.  When he looked down, he saw through the grating that he was above another wider platform.  At the end of the lower one, though, there was an elevator to get him up and out of the bowels of the rig.  “Yay,” he whispered.  How to get down, though?  Since he had no memory of how he’d found his way up here, he couldn’t see a way back.  The huge building rattled around him again like an earthquake was happening, and that was enough to remind him he needed to get going.  It wasn’t that far down, and the cement wall was only on one side.  Aside from a chain railing, there was nothing to stop him from simply sliding down.

 _“Great idea,”_ Clint said in that snarky tone of his.  _“Whoever said you were a genius?”_

 _“Careful, Tony,”_ Steve warned.

“I got this,” Tony murmured.  He sat down, biting back a moan, and scooted to the edge of the platform.  The drop was maybe ten feet.  Easy as pie in any other circumstances.  At the moment, though, this was pure insanity, and when he hit the grating below, it was without any grace.  Stabbing pain went up his chest, wrapping around to the shredded skin of his back, and his knees immediately crumpled.  He sagged there, rolling onto his side and shuddering through the aftershocks of the jolt.  “God, Jesus, _ow_ …” he moaned, shuddering and panting and struggling to rise above the torture.  Then he laughed.  “You guys are assholes for leaving me like this.  Really.”

 _“Get up, Tony,”_ Steve ordered.  _“Come on.  Call for help.”_

“Working on it,” he grumbled.  It took a lot to get up, to heft the blowtorch back up (damn, he’d _jumped_ with that, and he was ludicrously lucky the canister hadn’t ruptured and exploded or something) and head toward the elevator doors.  He shuffled along with renewed vigor, blinking the tears free from his eyes as he reached his destination.  “Alright, alright.”  He jabbed his thumb into the button to call the elevator.  And then he waited.

There were a million things that could have gone wrong.  The fight could have damaged the lift.  Maybe there was no place _to go_ , and the top of the rig where there were computers and equipment and everything he needed to scream for help was simply gone.  That seemed crazy, but how was he to know?  And maybe standing down here, waiting and waiting for the elevator to come, was lunacy.  He was exposed and vulnerable and it would take nothing for the bad guys to–

With a deep beep, the elevator arrived.  Tony nearly passed out from his relief.  He shuddered through a sigh.  “Oh, come on, come on,” he whined impatiently as the huge, heavy doors took their sweet time in opening.  When they did, he practically jumped inside.  There was one button up, and he slammed his palm into it.  “Go.”

Up it went.  Tony knew he should be vigilant, but he collapsed against the wall unwillingly.  He lingered there, sinking down into exhaustion.  _“Come on, Tony,”_ Steve beckoned.  _“You have to keep fighting.”_

 _“For us, right, Stark?”_ Clint said.  _“For all of us.”_

_For me, too._

That same dull beep heralded his stop, and Tony opened eyes that had slipped shut and lurched off the wall of the elevator.  The hallway before him was more pipes than walls, and the lights caged into the ceiling insistently flashed red.  He gathered himself, looking around wildly.  Now he could hear the sounds of the battle, big guns firing and things exploding.  The rig shook again and again.  He made himself run.  Ahead there was a sign.  “Freaking Germans,” he whispered, unable to decipher what it was saying.  “Writing all their crap in German.”

There was the sound of shouting to the left, so he went right.  He was practically dragging his left foot; for some reason that hurt more than anything else right now, and since it was fairly uninjured, he worried about damage to his spine (not that there was anything he could do about that if it was so).  At the next T-junction, there was another sign he couldn’t read.  “Damn it.”  Alarms _and_ signs in other languages.  Both of those he’d gladly do without for the rest of his life.  He picked left this time just for variation and sprinted as fast as he could.  Another corner was ahead.  And another.  He ran past a room, barely paying attention, but a familiar word caught his eye.  _Kommunikation._   He stopped and pushed the door open.

 _Bingo._   Tony wanted to kiss someone, but there was no one to kiss.  _Bummer._ Instead, he staggered over to the huge console.  The computers were running, of course displaying a ton of warnings, but the system was functioning and he could tell almost instantly the antennae for the rig were intact.  He slid into a rolling chair and pushed across the concrete floor.  “Talk to me,” he sternly demanded of the computers, his capable fingers flying over the keyboards and touch screens.  This system was a tad archaic, but he immediately discovered he could hack into the satellite connection and establish a link with the Tower’s encrypted communications protocol.  He flew through the steps, glancing up once or twice and somewhat idly noticing that there was a rather large array of windows before him.  There was the sun, and that gave him pause.  The bright, beautiful sun and puffy white clouds and the wide expanse of the glassy, blue ocean.  A lovely day, aside from the battleships not too far away that were launching missiles and spraying gunfire at the rig.  The rig, in turn, was firing back.  Smoke wafted in front of the windows, and Tony grimaced, not really making sense of what he was seeing for a second save for the fact that the little armada had to belong to HYDRA.  Those weren’t US or British ships.  _Has to be another faction of HYDRA trying to catch Zemo and get the serum.  Has to be._

Which meant it was likely Zemo was still here.

The rig rocked, knocking him from his stupor, and he frantically went back to work.  A few seconds later, he had secured the call to the Tower, and then he was waiting anxiously to see if JARVIS was there, if he was still alive.

He was.  “Whoever you are,” came the familiar British voice over the newly formed link, irate and wary, “be advised that you are illegally accessing–”

“J, it’s me,” Tony gasped as he fitted a small communications headset on himself, bringing the mic close to his bruised lips.  “It’s me.”

“Sir?”

Tony outright sobbed.  How good it was to hear JARVIS’ voice.  He’d been teetering on the brink of total collapse since Steve had died, and this stupid moment was about to send him over.  He wiped at his eyes, pain ripping its way up and down his chest as he fought with everything he had left to hold himself together.  “JARVIS, I’m in trouble.  Really big trouble.”

“Sir, what is your condition?  The Tower rebooted shortly after you were abducted but despite monitoring all available newsfeeds and communications channels, I was not able to locate–”

“Rogers and Barton are dead.”  The words just spilled from his lips, bursting out like his body was trying to expel poison trapped inside.  He could practically hear JARVIS’ shock in the silence that followed.  Even though he knew it was fake, the results of a self-learning algorithm that Tony himself had designed to emulate human reactions and human emotions, it felt far too raw to be anything other than absolutely real.  And with that surprise, there was of course anger.  Grief.  There had to be.  He feared condemnation ( _he’d let them die!_ ) even if he knew it wasn’t coming.  Shuddering, he barely stifled another sob.  _No.  Not going to cry now._ “Rogers and Barton are dead, and I need the suit.”

“Sir–”

“I need the suit right now!” he barked.

“Are you hurt?”

“Doesn’t matter.  Send me Iron Man.  Send me the whole damn Iron Legion!”

JARVIS knew better than to argue.  Tony had programmed that into him as well.  Enabling him.  Letting him get away with murder (in this case, rather literally).  “Calculating your position.”  There was a brief pause.  “The suits will be there in less than two minutes.  I have not been able to contact the other Avengers save for Black Widow.  She has been conducting a rather extensive manhunt over the last twelve hours with all the resources she could muster, but she is currently in Europe.  She believed Zemo would take you there again.”

Tony winced as another detonation rattled the rig.  “She knew it was Zemo?”

“With the Tower’s security systems inoperable, we had no solid evidence.  However, it made sense, given recent events.”  Something _really_ exploded, this one much closer.  More klaxons began to resound.  Tony jolted to his feet, looking out the window with wide eyes as one of the smaller battleships burst into a fireball.  _Oh, hell._   He watched in dismay as it sank.

Suddenly a flash of motion in the room’s reflection caught his eye, and he noticed a man in the open doorway gaping at him.  Panic washed over him, cold and awful, and he barely staggered to the side as the soldier attacked him.  A gun came loose of the man’s belt, and he aimed it right at Tony.  It was pretty shocking Tony was able to move as fast as he was, dropping low to grab the blowtorch where he’d set it next to the chair.  He threw it, and it hit the guy in the shoulder.  That was enough to distract him from flat-out shooting Tony, and Tony took full advantage, tackling the man hard about the stomach.  In a tangle of limbs they staggered into the doorway.  Tony drove them left, smacking the hand that held the gun viciously into the wall.  The weapon went flying, landing with a clatter where Tony couldn’t see.  He struggled to keep going, to keep taking advantage of the other man’s startled moment, but he wasn’t fast enough.  Hands seemingly as strong as iron latched around his wrist and yanked him around, driving his back into the wall out in the corridor.

Tony screamed.  The pain was so brutal he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything as he writhed against bulkhead.  He heard JARVIS nattering in his ear, heard himself gasping and his heart booming, _felt_ something warm and wet on his side, but his nerve endings were all too tortured to register what was happening.  Everything was receding into numbness.  The man shoved him to the side, and when he finally got air into his lungs again, he tried to twist.  _Something_ slid out of his flank, which felt really weird, but there wasn’t time to focus on it.  He tripped over his own feet, going down hard.  Squirming to get onto his belly, he blinked tears from his eyes and looked around desperately.  There, just a foot or so away, was the gun.  His attacker was yelling and JARVIS was going on and on, but all Tony cared about was that, was making his leaden body move just enough to reach for the weapon.  He threw his arm out, fingers shaking as he strained, and by some miracle, they brushed over the butt of the gun enough to drag it a few precious centimeters closer so that it was _close enough._   Tony cried out and, with a surge of strength and energy, grabbed it.  He rolled and pulled the trigger.

The weapon discharging echoed through the corridor.  The soldier fell onto his back, dead.  Tony gasped raggedly, adrenaline leaving him cold and shivering (except for that spot on his side – that felt warm).  He scrambled up and to his feet, staring at the body.  “JARVIS?” he whispered.

“Still here, sir.  I take it you are alright?”

Yeah, he thought so.  Wasn’t he?  He squinted, not making sense of the silver glint he saw by the man’s limp hand.  Silver doused in wet crimson.  A knife.  “Oh, shit,” he breathed, and he looked down.  His own hand had come of its own accord to press against the stab wound in his side where red was coming out in a torrent.  “Oh, shit.  Shit.”  He cupped his fingers harder there, like that could somehow keep the blood in his body.  He gave weak, desperate sob.  This was bad.  This was very bad.  “JARVIS…”

“What is it, sir?”

He started to run.  It didn’t hurt.  It didn’t hurt at all.  He was alright.  _He was fine._   “How long until–”  The rig shuddered, and he was nearly knocked off his feet.  He hardly managed to steady himself, scrambling along the wall.  “How long?”

“Until Iron Man arrives?”

“Yes!”

“Fifty-two seconds.”  Everything was becoming a blur, and a cold, miserable sweat broke out all over his body that made him feel like he was back below, drowning in icy water.  He had to get out of here.  It would be far more difficult for the suit to find him in this labyrinth.  “I have alerted the Air Force and the Coast Guard that a major terrorist event is occurring at your location.  They will undoubtedly dispatch aid.”

“Nice,” Tony gasped.  “Sounds grand, buddy.”

 _“You’re bleeding bad, Stark,”_ Clint said unhappily.  _“You can’t fight.”_

 _“Stop, Tony!  When that suit gets here, run!”_ Steve ordered.

“What did I say about orders?”  He paused against a corner, listening.  Over the pounding of his heart and rush of blood between his ears…  _Yeah, that’s what it sounds like._   Men were coming.  _A lot_ of men.  “Don’t you assholes have anything better to do?”  He glanced left and then right.  “Which goddamn way?”

 _“Left,”_ Clint said.  _“Definitely left.”_

Steve argued, of course.  _“It’s right, Stark.”_

“You two jerks are useless.”  He looked down ( _don’t look down_ ) and grimaced at the sticky red coating his hand.  He closed his eyes, feeling nauseous and light-headed just glancing at it.  It hurt more now.  “It’s cool,” he whispered, licking dry lips with an equally dry tongue.  “It’s cool.  We’re fine.  We got this.”  Knowing that if he stood here any longer, he was going to collapse (or get caught), he surged blindly down the hallway to the left.  “Sorry, Steve.  Clint’s got a better sense of direction.  J?”

“Thirty seconds, sir.”

The ratcheting of gunfire resounded behind him, bullets clanking into the grating by his feet and smashing into the pipes nearby.  Hot gas flooded over him in a white cloud, but he could still see the men coming at him.  There wasn’t time to think.  He went left, his sneakers pounding on the floor, his body barely functioning enough to run.  His eyes were wide as he scrambled to find a way out, a way through this hell, a way to get free.  Left and right and left again.  Randomly selecting because that was all he had.  _“Run, Tony!”_ Steve yelled.  _“Keep going!  Keep going!”_

_“Get out of there!”_

The smell of fresh air hit him long before he saw the metal door at the end of one of these hallways.  Once again, Tony could have cried, would have if he could’ve spared the breath to.  As it was he paused at a junction there, turning around and unloading the magazine of the handgun.  He had no idea if any of his shots struck true.  Between the flashing lights and the vapor filling the hallway and how blurry his vision was becoming, he simply couldn’t see.  When the trigger started clicking instead of firing, he tossed the useless weapon and made a break for it.

Bursting out onto the rig’s platform was tasted like _freedom._   That fresh air was amazing, even as filled as it was with smoke, and he sucked in a few deep lungfuls.  He looked around and saw the top of the rig was definitely burning.  Parts of the tower structure were completely destroyed or on the verge of collapse.  Men were manning long range artillery, and there were barrels and barrels that crowded one corner of the massive area.  Zemo was near there, barking orders.  The purple veil over his face was fairly unmistakable.  So was the helicopter with which he was attempting to escape.  His men were trying furiously to protect that and create an opening, but with the armada firing at them, there was just no way.  More of the ships had been sunk, but the two that remained that Tony could see were the biggest, and they were shooting with abandon.

Truly he’d stepped right out into the fire.

“Fifteen seconds, sir.  I have located your position.  Stand by.”

A shell from one of the ships struck the platform not too far from him.  Men screamed.  Tony dropped to his knees, covering his ears.  _“Go, Tony!  Run!”_   Clint’s voice was loud despite the ringing in his head.

Steve’s was, too.  _“They’re behind you, Tony!”_

Tony whirled, glancing over his shoulder.  The company of HYDRA soldiers burst from the interior of the rig, guns blazing.  He scrambled away, bullets biting into the concrete around him, and searched for cover.  There was mangled debris and equipment everywhere, but with the chaos all around, there was no place safe.  Another missile hit the tower of crates to which he was running, and he skidded to a stop, horrified.  Automatic gunfire slammed all around him, strong enough to pulverize concrete and spray him with dust.  Tony choked, eyes watering.  There was no place safe up here.  He was a goddamn sitting duck.

 _“Ducks fly,”_ Clint offered.  _“So fly.”_

There was irony in a man named after a bird telling him that, but it was fairly well lost on him as he pushed himself up to his feet.  _Everything_ screamed in protest, and the world blurred and melted in pain, but he managed to stand and run.  He heard Zemo screaming, saw that awful face turn to him.  He didn’t care.  “Five seconds,” JARVIS said.  “Initializing weapons.”

There was no time to wait.  He ran, devouring the distance between himself and the edge of the platform in a few huge strides.  Behind him there was heat, fire, things exploding as another shell struck where he’d been.  _“Jump, Tony!”_ Steve cried.  _“Now!”_

This order he followed.  He leapt right off the edge of the platform.  The ocean was over a hundred feet below, a calm, serene blue surface, and he was suddenly hurtling toward it.  This wasn’t the first time he’d jumped (or been thrown) off something without his suit, and it never felt particularly good.  The sensation of the wind ripping at his clothes and hair and skin wasn’t pleasant, and of course there was the terror pulsing through his veins and robbing the air right out of his lungs as the ocean screamed closer and closer.  For a split second, he always thought the same thing.  _I’m going to die._   He was going to this time.  He was falling fast, tumbling, and there was nothing to save him.  _I’m going to die!_

Right when he was certain this time would be _the_ time, he saw red and gold streak toward him.  Iron Man came apart in one smooth, well-coordinated motion, and the pieces of the armor folded around his body.  Gauntlets and vambraces.  Boots.  Chest piece.  Greaves.  All of it.  His helmet snapped down and the HUD immediately came to life.  With the water mere feet away, JARVIS fired the thrusters in his palms and boots, and he flew upward.

Tony couldn’t catch his breath (or contain his relief).  _I’m alive._ The comfort of his suit was unimaginable.  The feeling of the familiar weight, the protection of it, the power in the weaponry…  The steadiness of his tech.  _Freedom._   He flew upward, hovering above the smoking rig with the Iron Legion flanking him.  His mind cleared itself of the pain and the delirium, and he focused on his objective.  Right.  He could do this.  “JARVIS, target everything.  Destroy it all.”

“Sir–”

“Zemo is mine.”

“Sir, your vital statistics are extremely alarming.  I am detecting signs of severe shock.  Allow me to pilot the suit to safety.  The Air Force is inbound.”

Tony gritted his teeth, that rage blasting up within him.  “Didn’t you hear me?  _Take them down!_ ”

JARVIS didn’t argue any further.  The Legion broke off, and suddenly this maritime battle between HYDRA’s ships and Zemo’s rig turned into an aerial assault.  The suits of the Iron Legion scattered, avoiding the gunfire that was directed at them and returning with a veritable arsenal of their own.  Four of the suits went to contend with the remains of the armada and two stayed behind, each protecting Tony as they flew over the rig and took it apart.  Tony let it all go, all his hatred and grief.  All the damage done to him and the people he loved.  The trauma of the nightmare he’d endured.  He was a wraith in the sky, the palm repulsors of the suit firing long and hard, weapons firing in a salvo, raining hellfire from above.  Men ran for cover, firing back with their guns, but now the bullets only shred themselves uselessly on Iron Man’s plating.  A few of the major turrets rotated to face him, but Tony was prepared.  He was light and fleet in the sky but menacing and nearly maniacal, compartments opening on his shoulders and in his legs to unleash missiles, repulsors ruthless.  The other suits were there with him, just as wrathful, and soon the rig was nearly entirely ablaze.  He didn’t care.  Men were on fire, jumping to their deaths.  The suit started to warn of diminishing power to the weapons.  JARVIS was telling him to stop, that the battle was essentially won and help was on its way, but _he didn’t care._   All he could see and hear and _feel_ was Clint being tortured.  Steve, crying helplessly in the lab where HYDRA had taken _everything_ from him.  The three of them struggling and _struggling_ to escape.  Clint’s EV suit running out of energy and oxygen as he spoke his last, strained words.  Steve’s dead body in his arms.  The pain was too much, _too much_ , and he was lost up inside it.  He wasn’t going to let it go.  His chest ached and his brain throbbed.  Blood poured from his side, and he could hardly breathe, but he wasn’t going to stop.

 _“Stop, Tony.  It’s over.”_ Steve’s voice was gentle and comforting.  _“It’s over.”_

Tony came back to himself with a gasp.  There was hardly anything left standing atop the platform aside from a smoldering tower crane or two.  Smoke, black and acrid, spilled into the pretty sky.  The entire massive structure seemed to teeter.  “Sir, the structure is becoming unstable,” JARVIS warned.

 _Good._ He idly noted that three of the Iron Legion suits had been destroyed in the skirmish by the HYDRA gunships.  At least the ships were sinking.  They had to get their last shot in, though.  A missile or two struck the feet of the rig, and that was it.  _Jesus._   Concrete shattered. Steel bent.  The whole damn thing plummeted down a good hundred feet into the ocean with a cacophony that shook Iron Man even aloft as he was.  It settled down into the water, partially supported by the now crushed feet beneath it.  Tony glanced at the schematic JARVIS was displaying for him, shocked.  The entire structure, millions and millions of tons, was above the surface of the ocean, but just barely.  The four feet that connected to the cables and weights on the ocean floor were buckling with the strain and the damage.  It was stable for now but there was no telling for how long.

As the smoke cleared a bit and everything settled, little blip on the HUD caught his attention.  “You have got to be shitting me,” Tony whispered.  _Zemo._   The bastard was _still standing._   The rest of the platform was a crumbling, battered, burning mess about to sink, but he was there, scrambling with his now tipped helicopter.  Scrambling alone.  His men were dead.  Now he was the proverbial sitting duck.

_Mine._

Awful energy borne from that rage and that starving need for vengeance burst over him and shoved the pain down.  He shot through the air, swooping through the smoke and flames, and landed with a heavy thud right behind Zemo.  “Hey, asshole!” he shouted.  Zemo abandoned trying to right the helicopter and rose to his full height.  Slowly he turned around.  The two of them stood face to face on the burning, sinking platform, by themselves and locked in a moment of eerie quiet.  “You and I need to have a reckoning.”

“Sir, I would not recommend you engage in this fight.  You are badly wounded and Baron Zemo is a formidable opponent.”  Tony knew that.  He remembered Zemo was enhanced somehow to be physically stronger and longer-lived.  He was an expert combatant.  Clint had gone against him with a sword of all things in their first encounter and had nearly lost.  Hell, _Steve_ had lost.  He wasn’t going to be a pushover.

But there was no choice.  He was not letting Zemo escape, not after what had happened to Steve and Clint.  And definitely not with the serum.  “Where is it?”

Fury shone in Zemo’s eyes.  “I marvel at how difficult it is to kill you, Stark.  You have an irritating propensity for survival.”

“It’s called being an Avenger,” Tony returned hotly.

Zemo’s glare turned almost gleeful.  “Be that as it may,” he snarled, “I see I was successful in destroying Hawkeye and Captain America.  Two out of three is a decent enough result.”  Tony growled in the back of his throat, falling into a defensive stance.  “Do tell me.  Where did the others fall?  A stray bullet from the men I left to cover my escape?  In the flood?  Crushed by the ocean?  By the hands of my monster that was surely running rampant?  Or…”  Tony could feel him smile.  “Did Captain America’s frail lungs and faulty heart fail without the serum?  Did his pathetic body simply give up?”

“Shut the hell up!” Tony yelled.

That smile turned cruel.  “No, I see what happened.  They both died to save you, and here you are.  Seeking vengeance, I suppose.  Well, you won’t get it.”

Tony was not going to let himself be taunted by this bastard.  “It’s not just vengeance.  Give me the serum.  Give it to me _now._ ”

With flourish, Zemo flung his cape back, revealing the glowing blue of the serum he’d stolen from Steve’s body.  It was yet in the vial, and the vial was attached to his belt.  “Will you beg now?” he asked.  “Beg to get back the only part of Captain America left?  Beg to reclaim the only part of him that was ever worth anything?  It’s mine now.  _Mine._ ”  Normally Tony would have a witty rejoinder, some sort of snarky comeback, but he was frankly too tired and upset to manage it.  “Finally you’re silent?”

He couldn’t hold back anymore.  With a ragged cry and a fresh burst of stinging tears, he was stampeding across the platform.  Zemo grinned maliciously.  This was so damn _stupid_.  JARVIS was completely right.  He was too hurt to take on someone like this, particularly in close-quarters combat which was not his forte.  But, once again, all he could think about was Clint and Steve.  How they’d suffered and died because of this man’s evil.  Kidnapped and tortured.  Drained and left to drown and die.  The hell of the silo.  Here.  This man _deserved_ to suffer, and he was the only one left to see that he did.  To make sure the Avengers won.

Tony punched hard and fast, but Zemo sidestepped the blow.  He whirled, driving his fist hard enough into Tony’s side to damage the suit.  The HUD filled with red warnings, the diagram of Iron Man displaying the impacted area.  Tony staggered, regaining himself quickly and raising his palms to fire his repulsors at the other man.  Damn, he was fast.  Tony shot in rapid succession, but Zemo dodged every one of them.  Growling, Tony kicked at him, the mechanical whine of Iron Man loud as he moved.  Zemo caught his heel and threw him like he weighed nothing.

Tony struck some of the barrels that had been all over this side of the platform.  He scrambled to his feet, shaking the dizziness away.  “Come on then, Iron Man.  You’re here to get your revenge, yes?  Come _take it_ then.”  Zemo snarled and charged.  “Last man standing!”

Tony barely twisted away in time.  Firing the thrusters in his boots, he darted away.  Or he would have, had Zemo not boldly snatched his ankle right out of the air.  Tony cried out as he was yanked violently into the cement of the platform.  The HUD blared with impact warnings and new damage reports as he was smashed repeatedly into the ground.  “Screw this.”  He routed most of his remaining power to his palm repulsors, twisting and sending huge blue beams at Zemo.  These hit and they hit hard.  Zemo wailed, releasing him and staggering back.  His purple veil was singed nearly away as he reeled.  He screamed again, covering his horribly disfigured face, and Tony went in for the kill.  He fired again, but Zemo somehow lithely dodged the repulsor blasts, twisting through the air in an acrobatic feat that left Tony fairly stunned.  “Oh, shit.”

Zemo landed behind him, and Tony barely spun in time to face him.  They traded blows for a moment, rapid and vicious blows meant to destroy.  Tony was slower, naturally hindered by the suit and then his injuries on top of that, but the armor was stronger.  Zemo’s strikes were hampered, though Tony felt the rattling impact of them.  Again he was forced to wonder how this man could be so fast, so strong.  What had been done to him to enhance him.  How cruel and evil he was.  And that made the anger spill from him like poison.  “You goddamn bastard!  You son of a bitch! _They’d dead because of you!”_

“You’ll soon be the same!” Zemo retorted.  His hand snapped forward and clenched around Iron Man’s neck.  Tony tried to fire the thrusters in his boots to zoom away, but Zemo slammed his foot down and held him steady.  He squeezed hard, and the plating buckled beneath the crushing grip.  His other hand punched directly at the arc reactor.  The blow was devastating.  “Tell me, Stark.”  The arc reactor registered the pressure, cracking nearly under it, and the alarms blared louder.  Tony squirmed, choking.  “Did he beg when he died?  Did he cry?”

“Go to hell!” Tony sputtered.

“Reduced to nothing, as he was always meant to be,” Zemo said.  “I regret not being able to see it!”  He punched again.  “It would have been glorious.”

He shouldn’t have been wasting his breath arguing, but he had to.  “He was still Captain America!  You couldn’t kill Captain America!”

Zemo snarled, infuriated by that.  “Captain America is dead.  Even you can’t deny it now!”  He drove his fist into Tony’s heart again.  The suit bent under the force, and the arc reactor cracked.  “Say it, Stark!  _Say it!_ ”

“Sir!” JARVIS warned.

Tony gave a ragged cry, finally smacking the baron across the face.  “Bring the Legion to me!”

Just like that, the remaining functional suits of the Legion flocked to his side.  They bombarded Zemo with repulsor blasts, driving him back into the overturned chopper.  The baron yowled his displeasure, skittering to the side.  “Puppets?  You throw puppets at me?”  Now he laughed, a ridiculous guffaw Tony could only associate with a bad movie villain.  There wasn’t time to be amused, though.  The man grabbed one of the many barrels, swung his arm wide, and chucked it at legionnaires.  Predictably the suits fired at the barrel as it came at them, and it broke open.  Tony didn’t get the point until he saw what was inside.

 _Shit!_   He barely had a second to rocket out of the way as Adhesive X sprayed all over the Iron Legion and the platform.  Doused in the unbelievably strong liquid glue, the legionnaires immediately malfunctioned as their joints all froze in place.  The machinery of their thrusters and weapons fused, and they fell like lead weights out of the sky.  Tony watched in horror, remembering _exactly_ what it had felt like to get that stuff on his suit.  He’d nearly died.

Zemo turned to him, wounded and breathing heavily but infinitely pleased with himself.  “Still interested in fighting, Iron Man?  I suggest stopping and surrendering.  You will lose!”

But Tony was already charging.  To hell with stopping.  To hell with losing.  To hell with being afraid.  Clint and Steve had done what they’d needed to do, and he was going to do the same.  No way HYDRA was _ever_ getting its hands on the super soldier serum.  He rammed Zemo, grabbing the bastard by the neck and hauling him away from the deadly mess.  The man squirmed wildly, but Tony refused to let him go, instead reaching for the vial of serum still stuck in his belt.  They fought in the air, bathed in smoke, each scrambling to bring the other down.  Tony tightened his grip as much as possible, and when Zemo threw his weight to the left, they rammed into one burning towers.  The pain was too much this time.  Tony lost his grip on Zemo, and down the baron went into the smoke below.

_“Tony, look out!”_

_“Tony!”_

Another barrel was flung at him.  He barely avoided it.  And another.  And another.  It was difficult to keep dodging when it would have been easier to shoot, but he didn’t dare rupture these and risk exposure.  _This is like a goddamn video game again.  Freaking bad guy at the end._   And he was having a harder and harder time focusing.  _Blood loss._ “Sir, behind you!”

The tower they’d struck seconds before gave way, coming down in a mass of flaming wreckage.  Tony was so drained he was late in jetting out of its path, and a huge section of an i beam smacked him across the back.  Again he was bombarded with warnings as debris hit him, strike after strike smashing into the suit.  Driven down onto the platform, he barely fought his way free before thousands of tons of metal collapsed on him.

And he staggered right into Zemo.  The man looked positively maniacal, filthy, covered in ash and blood.  With the veil burned away, Tony could see his face again, the same awful, burned face that had loomed over him down in the silo and condemned him.  It was doing the same now.  “And now you die!”  He hit Tony hard even through the suit, and Tony fell.  Agony coldly rushed over.  He was losing consciousness and losing it fast.  JARVIS was nattering again, displaying his vitals.  Tachycardia.  Falling blood pressure.  Weak respiration.  He couldn’t focus on any of it.  He could barely even feel it.  Vaguely he felt himself being pummeled and kicked and pushed to the edge of the platform.  Vaguely he felt himself fight back, sloppy repulsor blasts and weak punches and strikes that did nothing.  Vaguely he knew this was over.  He was losing.  Vaguely.  It was too much to care about now.

Suddenly he was right at the edge.  Behind him the ocean waited. The platform was practically in the water, tipping with the shift in its center of gravity thanks to the collapsed tower.  Zemo struck him down with a punch right across the face, and he fell to his knees.  Tony raised his arms to protect himself, but they were so heavy.  So heavy.  Zemo smiled, pleased.  “Submission at long last to my superior might.”  Again, a sarcastic comeback was pretty much beyond him.  _Everything_ was beyond him.  “You should have known better, Mr. Stark.”  Zemo stepped back, a blurry shadow, to reach for another barrel.  In these long seconds, Tony could have moved.  He could have done something.  He was too beaten, though.  It was over.

Zemo knew it, too.  He was sadistically gleeful, wreathed in smoke and fire, a demon coming at his prey.  “You shouldn’t have fought.”  He opened the top of the container.  “You shouldn’t have struggled.”  He hefted the barrel overhead and held it so that it was dripping right on the ground between them.  “You shouldn’t have even tried.”

Tony looked up, hating this man and hating himself even more.  Hating and hurting.  This was truly it.  The moment where he’d die.    _I’m sorry._

 _“It’s alright, Tony,”_ Steve promised.  _“You did all you could.”_

 _No, it’s not alright._   And when he looked, _really_ looked, made himself focus and see, he realized there was one more thing he could do.

“You should have stayed down,” Zemo hissed.

“Yep.”  As the Adhesive X dripped all over the lower half of his suit, fusing the joints and locking him into his own coffin, he lurched forward with the last of his strength and mobility.  “But I’m taking this back.”  His fingers seized around the vial of the serum, yanking it away from Zemo’s belt and to his heart.  The glue spilled all over his arm and chest, forcing his gauntlet to stay in place with the vial tight against him in his fist.  Zemo howled once he realized what he’d done, dropping the barrel, but it was too late.  Tony saluted the man with his free arm.  _Bad movie reference for the win._ He smiled.  “ _Hasta la vista, baby_.”

_“No!”_

Tony tipped backwards and fell down into the ocean.


	10. Chapter 10

There were dark places in the world.  Evil men.  Horrors.  Hell on earth.

A cold, depthless abyss.

Tony was sinking right into it.

The ocean closed around him, and he went down fast.  Even with his suit malfunctioning, the sensors were registering that, just how quickly he was descending.  Alarms flashed all over the HUD.  Iron Man was completely immobile save for his one free arm, and though he scrambled to grab onto something as he raced past the broken cables and debris from the platform, it was too late.  Soon he was dozens of feet below the surface.  He squirmed uselessly, fighting and fighting, but the Adhesive X had fused the sections of his suit together.  He couldn’t straighten his legs beneath him.  He couldn’t move his right hand from his chest.  He couldn’t unbend his torso from where he’d been driven to his knees in front of Zemo.  He couldn’t fire the thrusters in his boots because the machinery was stuck shut.  He flung his free arm down, engaging his palm repulsor in the hopes of slowing his descent, but all that did was tip him wildly.  He couldn’t stabilize the movement without the other thrusters.  He couldn’t and couldn’t and couldn’t.

Jolted about by his senseless struggling, panic and pain left him gasping for breath and terrified.  Terrified at one sad and undeniable fact, the only truth left: there was _nothing_ he could do.  He was sinking.  And he was going to die.

It was still so hard to accept that, even if this was the choice he’d made.  “JARVIS?” he whispered.

“I’m here, sir,” came the AI’s sad, soft voice.

The last of the light faded overhead as he was swallowed into the sea.  He closed his eyes.  “Any chance you can spring me from this?”

The AI was trying.  Frantically.  Tony could see that, see JARVIS remotely attempt to reroute power to the suit’s emergency release mechanisms.  After he’d been doused in Adhesive X the first time six months ago, Tony had improved his suit’s protocols for quickly detaching from his body.  Those measures had been in response to a fairly small exposure to the glue, however.  This was much more significant.  He could feel the armor’s sections vibrate and shudder around him as they tried in vain to force themselves loose from each other.  “Adhesive X has seeped into the joints of the suit.  The armor is nearly completely fused together.”  Despite that, despite the overwhelming evidence that _this is it I’m trapped and there’s no way out_ , JARVIS tried again.  Once more he activated the release mechanisms, but all it did was strain the integrity of the armor against what was now solid resistance.  Tony could feel Iron Man quake again, a miserable seizure that seemed to rail against an inevitable fate.  It was no use.  JARVIS didn’t give up, though, and now he was wasting power attempting to fire the thrusters in Tony’s boots.  The components were overheating since the energy was simply building up with no outlet.  The armor was meant to withstand this sort of destruction, so using the thrusters to burn through the sealed doors on his heels wasn’t going to work, and it ran the risk of seriously burning his feet.  Already the heat was almost unbearable.  At his meager cry, JARVIS surrendered, powering everything down.  Silence followed, deep and devastating, before the AI softly said, “I cannot save you.”

Tony sobbed softly.  All he could taste was blood.  “I’m gonna die, right?”

The words sought confirmation, but his tone indicated a desperate need for solace.  And JARVIS, who’d been with him at his side longer than _anyone_ in his life, knew that.  The AI was quiet a moment, a painfully long moment during which the bright, pretty numbers on the upper right of the HUD counted higher and higher.  His depth in the water.  How far he was falling.  “You have done everything you could.”

 _Everything I could._ He supposed that was true.  He had the serum.  He’d taken it back.  Suddenly in the haze of panic and fading consciousness, he needed to be sure.  He couldn’t feel properly through the gauntlet of his suit anymore, not with the Adhesive X destroying everything it touched like poison.  Was the vial still there?  He could hardly move his head to look down.  Still, he got a glance, the smallest hint of one.  The serum glowed faintly in the vial, the light of the arc reactor reflecting in the blue liquid.  It was still tucked against him.  It was _safe_.  Tony closed his eyes again.  That was all that mattered.  Maybe Zemo had killed Clint, killed Steve, reduced Captain America to nothing and no one.  And maybe Tony was dying right back where he’d started: down at the bottom of the ocean, with only a thin barrier between him the crushing oblivion.  But at least Zemo hadn’t gotten what he’d wanted.  All that remained of the serum would never be his or anyone else’s.  That was a small consolation perhaps, but somehow it felt like it was enough.

Iron Man moaned around him.  Between being contorted and tortured by the Adhesive X and the increasing pressure of the water, the suit’s structural integrity was failing.  More sections of the armor’s diagram flashed red with warnings that he couldn’t read.  The depth meter was pretty alarming.  He wondered what would happen first.  The suit cracking or caving.  Pressure systems failing.  Running out of power (that was an alarming possibility, dying alone and in the dark).  Blood loss finally taking him down (that was a less disturbing option, lapsing into pleasant unconsciousness so he wouldn’t know exactly what killed him in the end).  He supposed he could hope for that.  Falling to sleep and never waking up.  Maybe that would be okay.

Maybe.  Not yet, though.  It wouldn’t be too much longer, too much deeper, before the suit would lose contact with the Stark Industries satellites.  Before he lost JARVIS.  So he had to do this now.  Even with the blackness pressing closer, even held captive by his own tech that had become his tomb, he couldn’t just succumb.  “J?”

“I am still here, sir,” JARVIS quietly responded.  His voice was a tad distorted.

Tony blinked and blinked.  Everything was getting ridiculously blurry.  He couldn’t focus anymore.  He had to say this, though.  “I need you…  Tell Pepper.  Tell her I love her.  Please.”

JARVIS paused a long time, so long that Tony feared their connection had been severed.  It hadn’t been, though.  The solemn response came, echoing in his head and heart.  “I will do that.”

“And…”  Now he tasted tears as well as blood.  The sound of Clint’s weak voice before filled his head anew, all too similar to his own now.  Final words whispered in final moments.  “Tell Natasha that Clint said he loves her.  I’m sure he wanted her to know that.”

Digital static flooded the line.  “Yes, sir.”

“And tell everyone else…”  He let out a long breath, surprisingly calm even as the comm link began to fail.  “Tell them we’re sorry.  Sorry we couldn’t…”  _Keep Steve safe._   The thought came unbidden, borne of the silent and solemn oath sworn between them all.  It was something the Avengers held in common with one another.  Captain America certainly needed no protection; he was more than capable of handling himself.  Tony had seen it again and again, in so many tough places and dangerous situations.  But there was something about Steve, particularly since the silo, that he’d noticed.  Something that they all felt about him.  _A need to watch over him._   Steve was young, not even thirty, a kid, really.  Despite how world-wise and strong he was, that was there, this touch of innocence.  And he was someone who _still_ _somehow_ saw the best in everything and everyone.  Someone whose caliber was so high, whose heart was so pure, that they ( _he_ ) couldn’t help but see it safe.  That was why Tony and Clint had arranged that their little party last night when Steve had been so tense and worried, why they’d taken the hits for him when Zemo had come to torture him, why they’d fought so hard to guard him from Zemo’s wrath.  He was more than just a friend.  He was a little brother, in a way.

And Tony had failed to protect him.  Failed the team.  Failed the world which still so desperately needed Captain America.  Failed Steve most of all, even if Steve would be the first to tell him this was never a burden he’d needed to assume.  “Tell them I’m sorry.”

“I will, sir.  But you should know that I’m detecting–”  JARVIS went silent.

Tony closed his eyes again as the suit nearly went dark, comm link cut and power switching to limited emergency reserves.

That was the end, it seemed.  He was sinking and sinking with no hope.  He gave a shuddering sigh and let the creeping dizziness that had been assailing him more and more since the world had gone dark simply overtake him.  That was alright.  _The end of all things._   He smiled a little smile and let go.

 _“You give up too easily, Stark.”_   Clint’s voice, as soft as it was, was stern and a little reprimanding.  _“Seriously.  You’re such a pessimist.  You’re not dead yet.”_

“No way out,” he whispered, sinking down in his mind as much as his body was in the ocean.  “No way up.”

 _“Hang on, Tony.”_ That was Steve.  God, didn’t Rogers _ever_ know when to quit?  _“Keep fighting.  Wake up.  Come on.”_

“Too tired,” he whispered.  “Leave me alone.”

 _“Not going to do that,”_ Clint said.  _“What did you say?  There’s a way to fix it.  A way to reboot everything.  Keep your faith.  You’re smarter than Zemo.  Smarter than HYDRA.  And you have better friends.”_

“Bullshit,” he moaned.  “Was… was saying crap to make everyone feel better.  Running my mouth.  Being a contrary…  Being a jerk.  It’s what I do.”

_“We know.  But you’re not wrong.”_

_Something_ rammed him.  Tony jolted forward, snapping from the haze of unconsciousness.  “JARVIS, what–”  He was hit again.  He wailed in pain, every wound on his body burning with it, struggling out of necessity (and stupidly – there was nothing he could do!).  “JARVIS?  JARVIS!”  There was no answer.  _No JARVIS._   Right.  No JARVIS to help him, to tell him what was happening.  To save him.  Panic left him completely unable to process _anything_.  The blur of blackness around him was all encompassing, a true void of _nothingness_ , as he spun senselessly.  He nearly threw up, the nausea was so bad.  He didn’t, though, because there was something beneath him.  Something…  It didn’t seem like it could be real.

But it was.

_Light._

Tony sobbed.  Was this what he thought it was?  Dying?

Something told him no.  Death wouldn’t be so cold and wet.

 _Wet?_   There was water leaking inside his suit.  And, more than that, he still didn’t quite believe in those stories about seeing the proverbial light before passing on.  He’d seen it before and hadn’t died, so therein was irrefutable proof that it was all bullshit.

 _“His suit’s failing!”_   Steve again.  Lord, he had a penchant for announcing the ridiculously obvious.

 _“Damn it!”_ Clint was there, too, it seemed.  Of course, Tony thought, he could be incorrect about that whole “not dying” conclusion.  He didn’t admit that he was wrong about anything all that often (like ever), but it was certainly possible.  He wasn’t quite so arrogant as to think himself _completely_ omnipotent.  Maybe death wasn’t cold and wet, but if Clint and Steve were still yammering, he couldn’t be far from it.  Heaven.  The afterlife.  Wherever it was he’d find his friends again.  He’d been lingering in the in-between since he’d lost them, and now…  _“Stay with us, Tony!  Come on!”_

_“Is he–”_

_“I don’t know!  Hold on!”_

He had no choice but to do that, to blink and dangle over a vast precipice.  _The abyss_.  However, the light grew brighter – _two lights_ – as it cut through the pitch, and he was pushed again.  Pushed up.  Higher and higher.  He focused on those abruptly crisp numbers, watched as they went down now, down as he went up – _everything is upside down in this place_ – and up.  He was ascending.  The shock of that was nearly overwhelming.  As the water brightened, the comm link crackled to life again.  “–can you hear me?  Sir!  I have a connection established with them!  Can you–”

“Tony, please answer!  Tell us you’re okay!”

“I’ve got to get to him!”

Faster and faster they went, surging up through the ocean, until all the sudden they were bursting through the ocean’s surface.  It was like flying.  Tony sucked in a breath as he saw blue sky and clouds.  The sun, again, up there and shining brightly.  He saw it for a second, just that and nothing more, before he slid off whatever had pushed him up and tumbled back into the ocean.  “I’m coming, Tony!  Clint, his suit’s not working right!”

“Don’t let him sink, Cap!”

Water was coming inside more and more.  Tony wriggled weakly as it crept up the tiny gaps between the suit and his skin.  The HUD wailed with alarms, and he could hear JARVIS yelling.  He couldn’t make out the words, though.  All he could see was the void below again as he tumbled from the surface.

This time, though, there was someone who could save him.

A strong arm latched around his chest, stopping his descent with a rough jerk.  Tony gasped, blinking and shuddering, as he was pulled back upward.  He closed his eyes, unable to fight the dizzying misery any longer.  “JARVIS,” he whimpered.  “What…”

“I believe you were inaccurate in your earlier statement that Captain Rogers and Agent Barton were deceased.”

 _What?_   Tony’s eyes snapped open just in time to see the sun again as he was hauled from the water.  The arm hooked around his chest lifted, impressive muscles straining, and the next thing he knew, there was something solid beneath him.  He was lying on his side, locked into place by the rigidity of the dead suit, but he could see enough through the tears and water in his eyes to realize he was back on the platform of the rig.

And that someone was kneeling beside him.  “Clint, I gotta get this off him!  Can you–”  Tony reached out his free hand and hit solid flesh, firm and unyielding.  “Hold on, Tony.  Hold on.”  Suddenly the suit wailed more warnings, screaming that someone was _breaking_ it.  The faceplate went first, ripped clear off the front of the helmet.  Tony sucked in a breath, a glorious one, as the water that had gotten inside immediately drained.  The rest of him was knocked and battered frantically but surprisingly gently.  He could feel fingers scrabbling to find gaps, to pry into places that weren’t covered in Adhesive X to break him free.  Idly he knew that was a hell of a feat.  Not just anyone could crack open Iron Man like breaking the shell of a nut, but that was what was happening.  Pieces of the armor were broken and ripped away as much as possible.  His legs were freed, the suit peeled back where it could be, and the pain of releasing his miserably clenched muscles left him whining.  With his lower extremities mostly unlocked, his savior rolled him onto his back.  “Tony!  Tony, can you hear me?”

Tony blinked.  “Steve?  Am I… am I dead?”

Steve grinned, breathing heavily.  He was dripping wet, water sluicing down his face and plastering his hair to his forehead.  “Hope not.”

Tiredly Tony closed his eyes again.  “Oh.  That’s good.  That’s…”  _Wait._   His eyes snapped back open, wide with disbelief, his heart _pounding_.  He hadn’t noticed it a second ago, because Steve was Steve and he’d opened his eyes to Steve looming over him just like this so many damn times when things had gone terribly wrong before but…  Steve smiled, _Steve_ with his full, healthy face.  Gone was the gauntness, the sallow paleness.  Gone was the dull, sick look of his huge blue eyes.  And that wasn’t all.  Gone were the jutting shoulders, the thin, frail arms, the skinny torso and slight stature and baby bird bones of his chest.  It had _disappeared,_ replaced by him as he had been before Zemo had ever touched him.  Muscles and solid, healthy skin and vitality.  Strength and resilience.  The constitution the serum had given him.  _The serum._

Tony didn’t get it.  He just didn’t.  How was this possible?  _How?_

Then his brain finally kicked into gear and it made sense, how Steve’s body that had been suppressed and drained dry of the serum had been restored.  How he’d _lived.  A shock to his cells._

Steve’s grin turned wry.  “Guess I rebooted.”

 _Rebooted._   Tony stared in unabashed shock.  _It wasn’t permanent._ He laughed hoarsely, laughed and sobbed at once.  Captain America was back.  _Captain America was back._

Not that he’d ever left.  Not really.

Tony simply came apart.  His lips curled into a smile, tears burning and stinging in his eyes.  His heart pounded and pounded, shuddering in his chest with relief like he couldn’t even express, let alone explain.  Steve nodded, knowing it all without Tony having to say a word.  “You called it right away,” he said.  “Much smarter than them, right?”

Tony gasped a laugh.  “Yeah.  Right.”

Steve nodded vigorously, grinning broadly, seemingly overcome by emotion himself – by how _incredible this was_ – and when he set his (big, strong, _familiar_ ) hand to Tony’s chest, he saw the vial of serum stuck there.  His happy expression disappeared in a second when he realized what it was, what Tony had done, and his mouth fell open.  “Tony…  I–”

A furious yowl behind them interrupted what Steve meant to say.  Tony jolted, and he squirmed up despite being partially trapped and – _yeah, hell_ – bleeding out inside his suit.  He lifted his free hand, shooting at Zemo as the baron charged across the platform to attack them.  Steve lurched to the side to get out of the way of the repulsor blast.  It hit Zemo in the chest, but it hardly slowed him.  Tony skittered back as much as he could, which was nearly nothing, as Zemo came at him, rage in his eyes and a roar on his scarred lips.

But Captain America was back.

Steve was a blur of pale flesh and power as he threw himself in front of Zemo’s advance.  He was fast, furious, catching the baron’s punch and cracking his arm as he twisted it to the side.  Zemo screamed, more in dismay and shock than in pain, and struggled to get away.  There was no getting away now.

_Captain America was back._

Tony was having a hard time following the fight.  It was a dizzying array of quick punches, hard kicks, leaps and side-steps and strikes and counters.  Steve was amazing, battling Zemo like _nothing had happened to him._   Like he hadn’t been de-serumed and beat to hell and drowned.  Even without his shield, he was possibly the best martial artist in the world, and he was leveraging all his strength and skill directly against their enemy.  And Zemo was already hurt from his melee with Iron Man and horrified that all of his evil plots had pretty spectacularly failed, so he was slower and weaker and _not going to win._

_Yeah, how do you like them apples?_

Better friends, indeed.

“Tony!”  _Speaking of that._ “Tony, Christ, are you okay?”

Tony was barely able to move enough to see Clint limp closer.  The archer was miserably pale, still as bruised and battered as he had been before and soaked again, but he was _alive._   He was alive and okay.  He somewhat collapsed at Tony’s side, pulling him back with all the strength he could muster.  Again, it wasn’t much.  He was shaking almost as much as Tony was.  “Jesus.  You were going down like a lead weight.”

“An iron weight,” Tony weakly chided.  Clint barked a little laugh, wrapping an around his neck and shoulders, pulling him up into his embrace.  Tony licked dry lips and shuddered in warm gratitude.  “Bleeding bad.”

“JARVIS told us.  Med-evac’s incoming,” Clint promised.  “Hang on.”  His voice was reedy, likely from having almost suffocated.  Or from almost drowning.  Or the million and one ways _they should have died._   Tony reached up with his free hand, the gauntlet heavy and clumsy as he patted Clint’s forearm.  “Here.”  He could practically feel Clint’s smile.  “Watch Steve kick some ass.  That’ll make it better.”

It did.  And Steve did kick some ass.  It was so great to see it, so empowering, and suddenly all of the pain and darkness and despair was very far away.  Steve was fast and powerful, renewed and restored, and Zemo had no chance of beating him, let alone escaping.  As Air Force jets screamed overhead to herald the arrival of help, Steve drove his opponent back into the wreckage all over the platform and pinned him there.  Zemo was still spouting more nonsense, though, spewing vicious hate and violent anger about how hard it was to kill Rogers, how damn _tenacious_ the Avengers were, about how there was _no way_ Steve could have recovered from what had been done to him.  Steve said nothing.  He was hardly even winded, not at all taxed, standing tall and strong and indomitable.  Zemo was hunched, beaten badly, and screaming at him.  “Why?  Why didn’t it work?  Why are you still fighting?  _Why?_ ”

Steve growled, balled his right hand into a fist, and punched Zemo right across the face with enough force to kill a normal man.  The baron staggered and fell into a puddle of water and glue, knocked out cold.  “Because I’m Captain America,” Steve said, standing over their fallen foe, “and I don’t quit.”

* * *

_All’s well that ends well._

That was the first thought in Tony’s head when he woke up.  Once it again he was regaining awareness with the unpleasant smell of sterility in his nose.  There was also the feel of recycled air and the soft beeps and whirring of machinery.  He was dry and warm.  The crushing weight of his immobile armor was gone.  Instead there was a thin mattress beneath him and a not-so comfortable blanket up to his chest.  He was lying in a bed, and the bed was in a small alcove that had very militaristic and austere gunmetal gray walls.  A curtain to the left attempted to provide some privacy.  _Hospital again._   Somehow that wasn’t as distressing and annoying as it usually was.  _I live yet again to die another day._   He chuckled and let his eyes close.

“I have no idea what could possibly be funny.”  At the familiar voice, he leaned up, wincing at the sudden, sharp pain from his side.  Sitting in a chair to the left of the bed was Pepper.  She smiled faintly when his gaze settled on her.  “Can’t leave you guys alone for a minute.”

It was too much.  “Pep?”

She nodded through her tears.  Then she was up, leaning over him and kissing him soundly.  Tony melted into it, too weak to really hold her but basking in the feel of her anyway because he’d almost lost this again.  Lost how sweet she was, how perfect and beautiful.  She pulled away, cupping his unshaven cheeks.  “Oh, Tony.”

“How…”  He shook his head.  His brain felt stuffed with cotton, everything detached and difficult to remember.  Some of it was likely the pain medication he saw being pumped into his arm from the IV machine to his side.  The rest was the haze of trauma, that distance the brain automatically created to protect the heart.  “Where…  When…”

“Why?” Pepper asked softly with a smile.  He managed a wan look for her.  She sat on the edge of the bed, so close and comforting, and lightly combed her fingers through the mess of his hair.  “Natasha had me airlifted out here yesterday after the Navy and the Air Force rescued you guys.  You’re aboard the _USS America._   Baron Zemo’s in custody, and we’re on our way back to New York.  We’ll be there tonight.”

That was too much, too fast.  “Huh?”

Pepper’s smile slid slightly.  “How much do you remember?”

Some things he recalled in striking, miserable detail.  Watching Steve drown.  Listening to Clint die.  But everything after Steve had stopped Zemo aboard the sinking platform of HYDRA’s rig…  Not so much.  There were vague impressions of helicopters, of Steve lifting him and carrying him to one, of Clint’s hand tight in his own and medical personnel trying to cut him loose to save his life…  “I screwed up again, didn’t I?” he timidly asked with a wince.

The pain in her eyes was enough of an answer.  “The doctors think you’ll be okay.  It was…”  She faltered.  That was always an indication of how bad things were.  “You’re going to need to take it easy for a while.  The stab wound was pretty serious, and you had some cracked ribs on top of needing almost a hundred stitches in your back.”  Tony winced.  Yeah, there was numb misery back there.  He felt it now.  “They want you transferred to Mount Sinai once we reach Manhattan.”

Normally he’d argue about that but he didn’t bother.  He felt weak, still lingering in a stage of shock maybe, and he didn’t have the energy to even complain about it.  “What about Clint?  And Steve?”

She smiled more fully again.  “They’re both okay.  Clint’s pretty badly banged up.  He needed surgery to deal with some internal bleeding.  I’m not sure of all the details, but they’ve been doing some respiration therapy on him.  He’ll be sitting on the bench with you for the foreseeable future.  I think Natasha may chain him there.”  She brushed the backs of her fingers to his cheek, like she knew what he was worried about.  “And Steve’s fine.  Clint said HYDRA found some way to shut the serum off?”  Tony swallowed thickly and nodded.  Pepper tried to be comforting.  “Well, you could have fooled us.  He’s completely okay.  There’s no sign of it now.”  _Oh, God, thank you._   That relief was back, the relief that _Steve was going to be okay_ , and it nearly took Tony down it was so strong.  “Nat’s been on the phone with Bruce.  He’ll be waiting for us when we dock.  I’m sure he has a load of tests to run on Steve to make sure, but…”

_All’s well that ends well._

Tony closed his eyes.  There were other things he wanted to ask, like how the hell Steve had escaped the installation as it had imploded and how he’d managed to save Clint, but he couldn’t indulge his brain’s demands for once because she was right there and he wanted her comfort far more than he wanted answers.  She seemed to realize that, carefully snuggling closer despite the fact that they were aboard a military vessel with only that little curtain providing privacy.  Boldly she draped a light arm across his chest.  There wasn’t much room on the narrow hospital bed, but they made it work, her head on his shoulder and her breath soft and steady against his neck.  The analgesics were making everything fuzzy, dulling the pain coming from, well, _everywhere_ into something he could mostly ignore.  And now he could feel the ship swaying, and it was almost like being rocked.  It was pleasant.  _Nice._ Nice had seemed impossible not long ago.  Somehow they’d survived again, triumphed against some really, _really_ long odds.  He was alive – _they all were_ – and now everything would be okay.

But for some reason he wanted to cry.  “I’m sorry, Pep.”

She kissed his throat tenderly.  “I know, Tony.  And you love me.  JARVIS called me right after he lost contact with you.”

He barely remembered asking JARVIS to do that.  “Well, at least I was thinking of you.”  A constant in his hectic life as an Avenger: in his “last” moments he thought of Pepper.  _The one thing I can’t live without._   “Credit where it’s due.”

She laughed softly.  He could hear that tremor in her voice again, equal parts love and overwhelming relief.  “You don’t need to apologize, you know.  You didn’t do anything wrong.  In fact, you three probably saved the world again.  Stopped a madman.”

Heat spread over Tony at that, and he smiled into her hair.  He wasn’t quite sure how much _they_ had done to put Zemo out of business.  Strucker had done most of it.  Their feud had caused HYDRA more damage than the Avengers had, that was for sure.  But why split hairs?  _Credit where it’s due._   “You wanted a hero,” he murmured with a smirk.

“I did,” she agreed.  “And I got one.  Boy, did I ever get one.  And I support that fully.”  She propped herself up gently to stare at him.  “But you three are not allowed to go anywhere or do anything anymore without chaperones.  Bruce and Thor, for sure.  Or the entire US military.  They need to be on speed dial.  You hear me?”  He wondered for a second if maybe she was just joking, but the look in her eyes and the sound of her voice was pretty strong evidence that she was one hundred percent _serious_.  “Because if I have to hear one more time that you’ve been kidnapped, I think I’m going to scream.”

“It wasn’t like we were out looking for trouble!  We were at home, chilling, having bro time.  It was a man-date!  It’s not our fault you guys left us unattended.  That’s not fair!”  She glared at him.  Contrary to Zemo’s assertions, he actually did know when to surrender.  So he sighed, sank into the pillows, and submitted because there was no sense in fighting.  Not this time.  “Fine.”

* * *

When Tony woke up again, it was to the disturbing sensation he was being watched.  “Gya!” he cried, leaning up in bed way too quickly.  A dull ache rolled quickly through his side, chest, and back.  “What the hell!”

“Sorry,” Clint said from beside the curtain.

Tony winced, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  “Are you creeping on me, Barton?” he groused.

Clint gave a wan smile.  “In your dreams, Stark.”  His tone was light, the same cool sarcasm he always had.  And he looked okay.  He was dressed in gray sweats that didn’t fit quite right, a little too big around the hips and shoulders.  His face was still bruised, huge purple and red splotches from the beating he’d taken at the hands of Zemo’s men.  He was pale otherwise, and his eyes were a little sallow.  Still, there he was.  Considering Tony had thought he’d never see him again, this was something.

When he came inside the room, though, he could see how badly he was limping.  “You sure you should be up?  What time is it?”

Clint was pushing an IV pole with him that had a few bags of things attached (saline and antibiotics, mostly).  “It’s almost dinner time.  And it’s fine,” he declared.  “Hate lying around.  And Nat’s been driving me crazy.  Something about never letting me spend time with you and Rogers ever again.”

“Sounds familiar,” Tony grumbled.  He grimaced and inclined his bed more.

“So I was thinking we should hang out.”

Tony blinked, like that could make what Clint had said any more rational.  “We just got the crap kicked out of us, remember?  Something tells me that won’t stop either Natasha or Pepper from doing it again.”

The other man laughed.  “C’mon.  The ship’s pulling into the harbor.”

Tony quirked an eyebrow.  “Not really feeling like moving.”

“Man up, Stark.  We can limp up to the deck together.”

Tony groaned.  “Ugh.  Why?”

“There’s something that needs doing.”  It was pretty obvious that Clint wasn’t going to be any more forthcoming than that (or dissuaded, the stubborn jerk).

Tony sighed, looking around this little closet that passed for a hospital room.  Nobody had strictly said he couldn’t walk or that he had to stay there, he supposed.  And Pepper was gone, having left to get a little sleep in an actual bed since she’d spent the last twenty-four hours constantly at his side.  So what harm could it do?  _Knowing our luck, God will strike us down just for trying._   Still, he heaved another sigh and pushed his blankets down.  Slowly and tenderly, he swung his legs from the bed.  Then he realized he was buck ass naked under the hospital gown.  “Find me something to wear, feathers.”

Clint tossed a pair of sweats at him.  Then he turned away as Tony got dressed or tried to get dressed at any rate.  It was harder than it should have been, given how weak and sore he was.  Clint came back at the soft sounds of his struggling, and together they managed to get the sweatpants up his legs and the shirt over his head, which was harder considering his back and side were heavily bandaged and painfully resistant to movement.  Nevertheless, with patience and perseverance, they got him dressed.  Then, with both of them leaning heavily on their respective IV poles and each other, they headed out into the corridors.

The ship was quiet.  The hallway wasn’t very wide, but there was no one around so Tony didn’t feel too bad leaning on Clint.  They limped slowly along, both of them wincing with every step, but it felt good to be up, so Tony didn’t let the pain or his shuffling gait stop them.  And he asked the question that had been bothering him since earlier that day, shattering the silence between them.  “How in the world did he save you?”

They reached a lift, and Clint jabbed his thumb into the call button.  He looked up.  “I’m still not sure.  He said he woke up in the room where we left him.  Followed the signs to the main cargo bay where the umbilical was attached.  Remember the lifts there were working?”  Tony nodded.  He recalled that very clearly, the despair he’d felt once he realized there was a way out but no path to get to it.  “He took an EV suit from one of the rooms next door and swam through the wreckage to get to them.”

That didn’t seem possible.  Tony couldn’t even picture it.  Steve waking up alone, half drowning in the rising water.  Would the serum have jolted him back to life?  Would it have hurt as it radically regrew his muscles and repaired his wounds?  What would that have looked like?  _Like a phoenix rising from the ashes._   He had so much he needed to talk to Bruce about.  The serum.  What it could really do.  How strong it really was.

And Steve, being the heroic moron he was…  Had he just gotten up and chased them?  Found his way to the cargo bay?  Seen that black hellish hole filled with deadly debris and just bravely done what needed to be done?  No sense of self preservation.  Serum or no, that seemed to be a constant in his life.  A law to being Captain America.  The first law.  _He doesn’t quit._ Not in the silo and not here.

The elevator arrived.  When the doors opened, the two of them hobbled inside.  Clint pressed one of the buttons, and up they went.  He went on with his incredible tale, completely unbelievable save for the fact it had happened.  “Someone was looking out for me, I guess, because I fell down right in there when the roof imploded.  Everything was collapsed, but he just… _found_ me tangled up in the wreckage.  Said he saw me fall.  He was able to get me loose, get us both into that elevator sub thing.  I swear, Tony, the water pressure and the cold and all of that should have killed him, but it didn’t.”  Clint’s eyes glazed with something akin to awe.  A little regret, maybe, but mostly respect.  “He saved my life.  I was out of oxygen.”

 _I should be dead._   Maybe they all should have been.  Steve had _actually_ died.  Clint sniffled a little, and his gaze hardened.  “We made our way up.  Saw you on your way down.  JARVIS managed to get in contact with us, and with his help, we were able to position the front of the elevator with the thrusters to catch you.  It was amazing.  Captain America, doing his hero thing.”  He grinned ruefully.  “Again.  The whole thing was a miracle.”

 _A miracle._   Tony wasn’t sure he believed in that or in God or in fate.  But he was damn sure he believed in the mettle of Steve Rogers.  More than ever before, he believed in that.

The lift deposited them on the deck of the ship.  Thankfully, they didn’t have to go far.  Steve was there, standing by the railing.  At the sound of their less than graceful approach, the soldier turned and frowned that disapproving frown of his.  He was wearing sweats like them and under the heather gray fabric there were muscles and height and strength and it was so damn comforting to see that.  So comforting.  He looked… _really good._   Normal.  Like he always did, in fact, without a hint of a scrape or a bruise or anything on him.  As incredible as it was, he was walking away from this ordeal unscathed.  Not even death could take him down, it seemed.  “What are you guys doing up here?  Geez, go back inside!  You shouldn’t be on your feet like this!”

He was at Tony’s side in a flash, helping to support him as he staggered closer to the railing.  At the same time he grabbed Clint to gently steady him.  “Nat said you were up here all by yourself, doing your ritualistic beating yourself up crap,” Barton said.  “So duty calls.  We’re here to get you to stop.”

Now it made sense, why Clint had wanted them on deck.  And Tony went right along with it.  “Barton, you lied,” he joked.  “You told me this was going to be a party.” 

Steve frowned harder.  That was a thing with him.  “I’m not beating myself up.”

“Brooding, she said,” Clint gasped.  “And you are.”

“Definitely,” Tony agreed.  “Knowing you, Captain Impossible-Standards.  ‘Oh, if only I’d been faster or stronger or braver!  Oh, if only I had found a way to stop Zemo from de-seruming me!  Oh, if only I was _more_ perfect!’”

Steve blushed, but he couldn’t hide his little embarrassed grin.  “You’re an ass.”

“Yes, I am.”  He was getting tired now, that meager little trip having worn him out.  Gladly he leaned into Steve’s warm strength.  “So I’ll boldly and inappropriately say that the least you can do after all that shit you made us go through is hold me up.”  Good-naturedly, Steve chuckled and did just that.  All around the sun was setting, so the calm ocean was slate gray spreading from here to New York City just ahead.  The skyline was already glowing, quiet and peaceful.  “Nice view.”  Clint shuffled a little closer, also somewhat leaning into Steve.  They looked positively pathetic, IV poles and bent postures, all wearing the same sweats like the Three Stooges or something, but Tony didn’t care one bit.  There was no one around.

Quickly they lapsed into a not quite comfortable silence.  The sound of the waves against the ship’s hull was soft and lulling.  The wind was warm as it brushed by them.  It was a beautiful evening, and they were still alive to enjoy it.  So that was something.  Something really good.  “So,” the archer began after a moment, “I thought we should christen our surviving yet another misadventure together.  We’re invincible.  Impossible to stop.  Zemo tried, but he failed.  Again.”

Steve grunted.  “Barely.”

“Don’t,” Tony warned.  “Remember?  This is a hard-ass free zone.”

“And winning’s what counts.  He came after you.  And he tried to beat you down, and you beat him instead,” Clint added.  His tone was light, but he was nothing but serious.  In a way, he was right.  Of course this had been all of their fight.  They’d all been kidnapped and forced into this nightmare.  But Steve had been Zemo’s true target, the one against whom Zemo had wanted revenge most of all.  He’d been the one Zemo had wanted to bring to his knees, the one the deranged baron had wanted to see destroyed.  So the fact that Steve was standing here, every bit the man he’d been before they’d strapped him to a table and drained him dry, was pretty damn remarkable.  It was _incredible_ that they were together.  That Steve had been frozen seventy years ago only to wake up here and now.  That they’d all become a team, a family.

Tony couldn’t keep a snarky comment to himself, if only to hide how much his heart was swelling with pride that they’d _lived._   “Well, maybe you kicked his ass in the end, but I softened him up for you.”

Steve laughed genuinely now.  However, it faded as quickly as it came.  “I, uh…”  He flushed anew, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Alright, I’m not trying to beat myself up.  But really…  I can’t take the credit this time.  You guys saved my life.  Carried me down there when…  Well, when I was at my weakest.  I kinda forgot what it was like, not being able to fight.  Or breathe.  Or help.”  That dark look came back over his face.  “If you hadn’t done what you did, kept me going and kept me telling it’d be okay, it… it wouldn’t have ended like this.”  He sighed, glancing between them.  “Thank you.”

Obviously he was forgetting the part where he’d attacked that monster, as skinny and weak as he’d been.  Or when he’d gotten the axe to cut Clint free of its tentacles.  Or when he’d convinced Strucker to take them as prisoners in order to buy some time.  Or when he’d looked at that flooded relay room, knowing he was the only one who could save them and knowing he’d die doing it, and gone in there without hesitation.  _Yeah, Rogers.  You don’t even know how strong you are._   But, again, there were the other moments, too.  Where Tony had kept a level head.  Where Clint had offered himself up to take Steve’s place.  Where Tony had.  Where he’d faced that monster and figured out how to save them.  Where Clint had detached himself from the pod so that Tony could escape.  Where Tony had taken on Zemo, as hurt as he had been.  _We’re a team.  We protect each other._ “Well…”  He cleared the emotional knot from his throat.  “I’d tell you you’re welcome, but Clint’s right: he was after you.  I consider myself an innocent bystander.”  Steve laughed again and clasped him on the shoulder.

They fell silent again for a moment.  Ahead the Statue of Liberty was growing closer, a beacon in the setting sun.  And beyond that, the skyscrapers of Midtown.  The Tower.  _Home._   He’d thought he’d never see it again.

But there it was.

“Anyway,” Clint said, sniffling like he was getting choked up and maudlin himself.  “Like I said, we need to celebrate.  Natasha gave this to me.”  He reached into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out something.  He offered it up to Steve, unfurling his fingers.  It was a vial – a new, bigger vial – that had the serum.  “Took a bit of doing to save it considering how stuck it was to your suit, Tony.  But here it is.”

Steve stared at it for a long moment.  The liquid glowed that faint blue again, bright and pure in the dying light of day.  His jaw clenched, and his eyes glazed with memory.  Maybe of how much they’d suffered for this.  Maybe of what he’d been before Project: Rebirth and so recently again.  Maybe of how close he’d come to losing _everything._

 _No._ Not liking that newly returning troubled look, Tony grasped Steve’s shoulder now, his fingers firm and true.  “Can I?” he asked.  Steve seemed confused for a moment, but then he stepped back just a bit.  Holding onto his IV pole for extra support, Tony reached over and took the vial.  Inside the liquid rolled gently against the glass.  In this bigger vessel, it was obvious just how littler of it there was.  His father’s legacy.  Steve’s lifeblood, in a sense.  And, of course, all the scientific breakthroughs that could be had and potential uses of this tiny bit of Erskine’s formula rushed through his head.  He ignored them all.  Instead he sighed slowly and uncapped the top of the tube.  He dumped the contents right over the side of the ship.  Then he threw the empty vial out into the harbor.

Steve and Clint were watching him, shocked, so he smiled and shrugged.  “It’s not worth anything without the man it came from.”

All the pain faded from Steve’s face, and Tony knew then and there that he’d never failed him at all.  He’d done _exactly_ what he’d needed to.

They stood in silence for a bit once more.  Each was content with his own thoughts.  Ahead the Statue of Liberty glowed green in the darkening daylight, welcoming them back.  Tony stared at it, thinking of nothing for once.  Not of the horrors they faced or how much they’d struggled.  Not of laws and rules and precepts.  Just of that image, the statue and the setting sun and the future waiting for them.  “You know,” he said, “this is kinda like the end of _Titanic._ ”  He turned and looked at the two of them.  “Only less lame.”

Clint rolled his eyes.  “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is!  It totally is.  Look, we were running through hallways, you know, barely escaping floods and junk, outrunning a crazy, over the top angry guy with a gun–”

“Guys, Stark.  An army.”

“–and a monster thing, let’s not forget that.  That was weird, right.  _Titanic_ meets _Alien_ meets _Resident Evil?_ Anyway, we’re trying not to drown while everything sinks.  I mean, it was kind of already on the bottom of the ocean, but stuff was exploding!  So there are some similarities.  And Steve was a skinny blond dude.  Struggling artist, right?  Yeah, wow.  This was meant to be.  And I was like the cool Italian buddy or maybe the even cooler ship’s inventor guy.”  He looked right at Clint, deadpan.  “I guess that makes you the love interest.”

Clint’s eyebrow twitched.  “Stark…”

“Come on, guys!  The similarities are vast and undeniable!  Work with me here!”

“I swear to God…” Clint looked about ready to murder him.  “Steve, tell him he’s an idiot.”

And Steve, predictably, just looked flabbergasted.  “I have no idea what you guys are talking about.”

Tony couldn’t believe it.  Out of all the impossible things over the last day, _this_ was the most impossible of all.  “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen _Titanic._   The movie.”  Innocently, Steve shook his head.  “Don’t you dare.  Don’t.”  Steve shook his head _again._   “You really haven’t seen _Titanic_?”  And one more.  Flummoxed, Steve even threw his hands up helplessly.  “God, what is wrong with you, Rogers?”

“Um…  Was I supposed to?”

“Yes!  Even if you hate _Titanic_ , which I do vehemently, you still need to see it.  That’s just pathetic.  A real injustice.  _Terrible._ You’re still so ignorant.  No wonder you _never_ get _any_ of my references!  When we get home we’ll watch it.  First thing tonight.   _First thing._ ”

Clint groaned.  “No.  No way.”

“ _Yes,_ way.”

“Is that the one with the song?”  Steve got a distant look to his eyes, like he was trying to remember.  He snapped his fingers.  “And the sinking ship?”

Tony stared.  “You… do know that happened for real, right.  Big ship.  Sank like right before you were born.”

“Yeah, but how’s the song go?”  Steve sighed, confused, frustrated, and shaking his head.  “Something about a heart and going on.  Sing it.  Maybe I did see it.”

Clint grimaced.  “No.  No, no, no.”

“Seriously?” Tony asked.

Steve nodded.  “Yeah.  Jog my memory.”

“ _Seriously?”_ Steve just watched him expectantly.  “Alright.  You asked for it.”  Tony tipped his head back and belted it out, as loud and off-key as he could.  _“You’re here, and there’s nothing I fear!  And I know that my heart will go on!  We’ll stay, forever this way!”_

Clint clasped his hands over his ears and groaned.  “Steve, for the love of God, please throw him overboard!”

But Steve just burst out laughing, slung his arms around both of them with a ridiculously smug grin plastered all over his face, and sang along.

 _I knew it,_ Tony thought. _You sneaky…  Well played, Cap.  Well played._

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it. Another one done! Hopefully you enjoyed this excuse to write ridiculous whump, angst, and bromance :-). The poor Traumatized Trio. Somehow they survived again :-P. Thanks to everyone who followed this tale and commented on it! And thanks to E, my tireless beta-reader, who always finds new ways to put my favorite characters through the ringer.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://thegraytigress.tumblr.com)!


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